She took out of her trunk a little book of Prayers and Meditations—­worn with much use—­which had once belonged to her mother.  She sat by the window reading it.  Now and then she looked up from it—­thinking.  The parallel between her mother’s position and her own position was now complete.  Both married to husbands who hated them; to husbands whose interests pointed to mercenary alliances with other women; to husbands whose one want and one purpose was to be free from their wives.  Strange, what different ways had led mother and daughter both to the same fate!  Would the parallel hold to the end?  “Shall I die,” she wondered, thinking of her mother’s last moments, “in Blanche’s arms?”

The time had passed unheeded.  The morning movement in the house had failed to catch her ear.  She was first called out of herself to the sense of the present and passing events by the voice of the servant-girl outside the door.

“The master wants you, ma’am, down stairs.”

She rose instantly and put away the little book.

“Is that all the message?” she asked, opening the door.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She followed the girl down stairs; recalling to her memory the strange words addressed to her by Geoffrey, in the presence of the servants, on the evening before.  Was she now to know what those words really meant?  The doubt would soon be set at rest.  “Be the trial what it may,” she thought to herself, “let me bear it as my mother would have borne it.”

The servant opened the door of the dining-room.  Breakfast was on the table.  Geoffrey was standing at the window.  Hester Dethridge was waiting, posted near the door.  He came forward—­with the nearest approach to gentleness in his manner which she had ever yet seen in it—­he came forward, with a set smile on his lips, and offered her his hand!

She had entered the room, prepared (as she believed) for any thing that could happen.  She was not prepared for this.  She stood speechless, looking at him.

After one glance at her, when she came in, Hester Dethridge looked at him, too—­and from that moment never looked away again, as long as Anne remained in the room.

He broke the silence—­in a voice that was not like his own; with a furtive restraint in his manner which she had never noticed in it before.

“Won’t you shake hands with your husband,” he asked, “when your husband asks you?”

She mechanically put her hand in his.  He dropped it instantly, with a start.  “God! how cold!” he exclaimed.  His own hand was burning hot, and shook incessantly.

He pointed to a chair at the head of the table.

“Will you make the tea?” he asked.

She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a step mechanically—­and then stopped.

“Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?” he said.

“If you please,” she answered, faintly.

“Wait a minute.  I have something to say before you go.”