Stella had got out of the carriage when her husband reached the porch.  She ascended the few steps that led to the hall as slowly and painfully as if she had been an infirm old woman.  The delicately tinted color in her face had faded to an ashy white.  She had seen Winterfield at the window.

For the moment, Romayne looked at her in speechless consternation.  He led her into the nearest room that opened out of the hall, and took her in his arms.  “My love, this nursing of your mother has completely broken you down!” he said, with the tenderest pity for her.  “If you won’t think of yourself, you must think of me.  For my sake remain here, and take the rest that you need.  I will be a tyrant, Stella, for the first time; I won’t let you go back.”

She roused herself, and tried to smile—­and hid the sad result from him in a kiss.  “I do feel the anxiety and fatigue,” she said.  “But my mother is really improving; and, if it only continues, the blessed sense of relief will make me strong again.”  She paused, and roused all her courage, in anticipation of the next words—­so trivial and so terrible—­that must, sooner or later, be pronounced.  “You have a visitor?” she said.

“Did you see him at the window?  A really delightful man—­I know you will like him.  Under any other circumstances, I should have introduced him.  You are not well enough to see strangers today.”

She was too determined to prevent Winterfield from ever entering the house again to shrink from the meeting.  “I am not so ill as you think, Lewis,” she said, bravely.  “When you go to your new friend, I will go with you.  I am a little tired—­that’s all.”

Romayne looked at her anxiously.  “Let me get you a glass of wine,” he said.

She consented—­she really felt the need of it.  As he turned away to ring the bell, she put the question which had been in her mind from the moment when she had seen Winterfield.

“How did you become acquainted with this gentleman?”

“Through Father Benwell.”

She was not surprised by the answer—­her suspicion of the priest had remained in her mind from the night of Lady Loring’s ball.  The future of her married life depended on her capacity to check the growing intimacy between the two men.  In that conviction she found the courage to face Winterfield.

How should she meet him?  The impulse of the moment pointed to the shortest way out of the dreadful position in which she was placed—­it was to treat him like a stranger.  She drank her glass of wine, and took Romayne’s arm.  “We mustn’t keep your friend waiting any longer,” she resumed.  “Come!”

As they crossed the hall, she looked suspiciously toward the house door.  Had he taken the opportunity of leaving the villa?  At any other time she would have remembered that the plainest laws of good breeding compelled him to wait for Romayne’s return.  His own knowledge of the world would tell him that an act of gross rudeness, committed by a well-bred man, would inevitably excite suspicion of some unworthy motive—­and might, perhaps, connect that motive with her unexpected appearance at the house.  Romayne opened the door, and they entered the room together.