A time followed, during which they were obliged to wait until rooms were free.  In this interval, brooding over the melancholy absence of a friend or relative in whom she could confide, her morbid dread of the future decided her on completing the parallel between herself and that other lost creature of whom she had read.  Sydney opened communication anonymously with the Benedictine community at Sandyseal.

She addressed the Mother Superior; telling the truth about herself with but one concealment, the concealment of names.  She revealed her isolated position among her fellow-creatures; she declared her fervent desire to repent of her wickedness, and to lead a religious life; she acknowledged her misfortune in having been brought up by persons careless of religion, and she confessed to having attended a Protestant place of worship, as a mere matter of form connected with the duties of a teacher at a school.  “The religion of any Christian woman who will help me to be more like herself,” she wrote, “is the religion to which I am willing and eager to belong.  If I come to you in my distress, will you receive me?” To that simple appeal, she added a request that an answer might be addressed to “S.W., Post-office, Sandyseal.”

When Captain Bennydeck and Sydney Westerfield passed each other as strangers, in the hall of the hotel, that letter had been posted in London a week since.

The servant showed “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert” into their sitting-room, and begged that they would be so good as to wait for a few minutes, while the other rooms were being prepared for them.

Sydney seated herself in silence.  She was thinking of her letter, and wondering whether a reply was waiting for her at the post-office.

Moving toward the window to look at the view, Herbert paused to examine some prints hanging on the walls, which were superior as works of art to the customary decorations of a room at a hotel.  If he had gone straight to the window he might have seen his divorced wife, his child, and his wife’s mother, getting into the carriage which took them to the railway station.

“Come, Sydney,” he said, “and look at the sea.”

She joined him wearily, with a faint smile.  It was a calm, sunny day.  Bathing machines were on the beach; children were playing here and there; and white sails of pleasure boats were visible in the offing.  The dullness of Sandyseal wore a quiet homely aspect which was pleasant to the eyes of strangers.  Sydney said, absently, “I think I shall like the place.”  And Herbert added:  “Let us hope that the air will make you feel stronger.”  He meant it and said it kindly—­but, instead of looking at her while he spoke, he continued to look at the view.  A woman sure of her position would not have allowed this trifling circumstance, even if she had observed it, to disturb her.  Sydney thought of the day in London when he had persisted in looking out at the street, and returned in silence to her chair.