Emily answered all his questions with her usual sweet, good sense.  She was not well.  Yesterday she had fainted.

“Was there any disturbing reason for the faint?” he inquired.

“It was because I was—­very much disappointed,” she answered, hesitating.  “I had a letter which—­It was not what I expected.”

She was thinking desperately.  She could understand nothing.  It was not explainable that what she had written did not matter at all, that James should have made no reply.

“I was awake all night,” she added.

“That must not go on,” he said.

“I was thinking—­and thinking,” nervously.

“I can see that,” was his answer.

Perhaps she ought to have courage to say nothing.  It might be safer.  But it was so lonely not to dare to ask anyone’s advice, that she was getting frightened.  India was thousands and thousands of miles away, and letters took so long to come and go.  Anxiety might make her ill before she could receive a reply to a second letter.  And perhaps now in her terror she had put herself into a ridiculous position.  How could she send for Lady Maria to Mortimer Street and explain to her?  She realised also that her ladyship’s sense of humour might not be a thing to confide in safely.

Warren’s strong, amiable personality was good for her.  It served to aid her to normal reasoning.  Though she was not aware of the fact, her fears, her simplicity, and her timorous adoration of her husband had not allowed her to reason normally in the past.  She had been too anxious and too much afraid.

Her visitor watched her with great interest and no little curiosity.  He himself saw that her mood was not normal.  She did not look as poor Mrs. Jerrold had looked, but she was not in a normal state.

He made his visit a long one purposely.  Tea was brought up, and he drank it with her.  He wanted to give her time to make up her mind about him.  When at last he rose to go away, she rose also.  She looked nervously undecided, but let him go towards the door.

Her move forward was curiously sudden.

“No, no,” she said.  “Please come back.  I—­oh!—­I really think I ought to tell you.”

He turned towards her, wishing that Mary were with him.  She stood trying to smile, and looking so entirely nice and well-behaved even in her agitation.

“If I were not so puzzled, or if there was anybody—­” she said.  “If you could only advise me; I must—­I must keep safe.”

“There is something you want to tell me?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she answered.  “I am so anxious, and I am sure it must be bad for one to be anxious always.  I have not dared to tell anyone.  My name is not Mrs. Jameson, Dr. Warren.  I am—­I am Lady Walderhurst.”

He barely managed to restrain a start.  He was obliged to admit to himself that he had not thought of anything like this.  But Mary had been right.