Walderhurst had not the faintest conception of what this worship represented.  He did not even reach the length of realising its existence.  He saw her ingenuous reverence for and belief in him, and was naturally rather pleased by them.  He was also vaguely aware that if she had been a more brilliant woman she would have been a more exacting one, and less easily impressed.  If she had been a stupid woman or a clumsy one, he would have detested her and bitterly regretted his marriage.  But she was only innocent and gratefully admiring, which qualities, combining themselves with good looks, good health, and good manners, made of a woman something he liked immensely.  Really she had looked very nice and attractive when she had bidden him good-by, with her emotional flush and softness of expression and the dewy brightness of her eyes.  There was something actually moving in the way her strong hand had wrung his at the last moment.

“I only wish,” she had said, “I only do so wish that there was something I could do for you while you are away—­something you could leave me to do.”

“Keep well and enjoy yourself,” he had answered.  “That will really please me.”

Nature had not so built him that he could suspect that she went home and spent the rest of the morning in his rooms, putting away his belongings with her own hands, just for the mere passion of comfort she felt in touching the things he had worn, the books he had handled, the cushions his head had rested against.  She had indeed mentioned to the housekeeper at Berkeley Square that she wished his lordship’s apartments to remain untouched until she herself had looked over them.  The obsession which is called Love is an emotion past all explanation.  The persons susceptible to its power are as things beneath a spell.  They see, hear, and feel that of which the rest of their world is unaware, and will remain unaware for ever.  To the endearing and passion-inspiring qualities Emily Walderhurst saw in this more than middle-aged gentleman an unstirred world would remain blind, deaf, and imperceptive until its end transpired.  This, however, made not the slightest difference in the reality of these things as she saw and felt and was moved to her soul’s centre by them.  Bright youth in Agatha Norman, at present joyously girdling the globe with her bridegroom, was moved much less deeply, despite its laughter and love.

A large lump swelled in Emily’s throat as she walked about the comfortable, deserted apartments of her James.  Large tears dropped on the breast of her dress as they had dropped upon her linen blouse when she walked across the moor to Maundell.  But she bravely smiled as she tenderly brushed away with her hand two drops which fell upon a tweed waistcoat she had picked up.  Having done this, she suddenly stooped and kissed the rough cloth fervently, burying her face in it with a sob.

“I do love him so!” she whispered, hysterically.  “I do so love him, and I shall so miss him!” with the italicised feelingness of old.