And quite alone she was sitting one morning, counting up her misery, feeling that the apples were, in truth, ashes, when a servant came to her, telling her that there was a gentleman in the hall desirous of seeing her.  The man had the visitor’s card in his hand, but before she could read the name, the blood had mounted into her face as she told herself that it was Harry Clavering.  There was joy for a moment at her heart; but she must not show it—­not as yet.  She had been but four months a widow, and he should not have come to her in the country.  She must see him and in some way make him understand this—­but she would be very gentle with him.  Then her eye fell upon the card, and she saw, with grievous disappointment, that it bore the name of Count Pateroff.  No; she was not going to be caught in that way.  Let the result be what it might, she would not let Sophie Gordeloup, or Sophie’s brother, get the better of her by such a ruse as that!  “Tell the gentleman, with my compliments,” she said, as she handed back the card, “that I regret it greatly, but I can see no one now.”  Then the servant went away, and she sat wondering whether the count would be able to make his way into her presence.  She felt rather than knew that she had some reason to fear him.  All that had been told of him and of her had been false.  No accusation brought against her had contained one spark of truth.  But there had been things between Lord Ongar and this man which she would not care to have told openly in England.  And though, in his conduct to her, he had been customarily courteous, and on one occasion had been generous, still she feared him.  She would much rather that he should have remained in Italy.  And though, when all alone in Bolton Street, she had in her desolation welcomed his sister Sophie, she would have preferred that Sophie should not have come to her, claiming to renew their friendship.  But with the count she would hold no communion now, even though he should find his way into the room.

A few minutes passed before the servant returned, and then he brought a note with him.  As the door opened Lady Ongar rose, ready to leave the room by another passage; but she took the note and read it.  It was as follows:  “I cannot understand why you should refuse to see me, and I feel aggrieved.  My present purpose is to say a few words to you on private matters connected with papers that belonged to Lord Ongar.  I still hope that you will admit me—­P.”  Having read these words while standing, she made an effort to think what might be the best course for her to follow.  As for Lord Ongar’s papers, she did not believe in the plea.  Lord Ongar could have had no papers interesting to her in such a manner as to make her desirous of seeing this man or of hearing of them in private.  Lord Ongar, though she had nursed him to the hour of his death, earning her price, had been her bitterest enemy; and though there had been something about this count that she had respected, she had known him to