I was alone all the afternoon, and copied out for the last time a letter to my husband, on which I had lately expended many hours.  I felt strong and sure of myself; it was not cowardice that led me to write to him instead of saying to his face all that I had to say.  But there was no telling in what mood I should find him, were I to speak.  He might refuse to listen; he might move me to momentary indecision by manner, look, or words; I preferred to write it all down clearly, to make sure that what I had to say would not run the risk of being left unsaid through the interposition of unforeseen and incalculable emotions.

At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the drawing-room.  We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the vicar, and Uncle George.  My old dears and I had half an hour to ourselves before any of them came.  Gabriel was very late; our last guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to our room.

When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes danced in his head.  I went up to him and drew him aside, towards the window.

“Well?” said I, softly, “what’s the matter with him?”

He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.

“Finished!” he whispered.  “I have done, Emilia,—­the last line is written.”

I looked up at him with gladness in my face.

“You must read it me this evening,” said I.

There came a flash of light before my inward eye,—­the joy of his achievement,—­then it fell in broken showers, all fell.  I had a sense as of sinking into space, and all was dark within me.

“Go and give your arm to Aunt Caroline,” said I, pressing his hand as I let it go.

I myself went into supper with the vicar.  We did not sit long at table.  Uncle George, Mrs. Rayner, and Mr. Dobb sat down immediately after to a rubber of whist with Aunt Caroline; grandmamma fell asleep.  I turned the lamp-shade towards her face, and my pretty Constance covered her well with a shawl; then, taking my dear one by the waist, I walked with her to where Gabriel stood at the chimney.

“I have had an inspiration,” said I.  “Come, we will slip away to Fairview and spend the evening alone, we three; then Gabriel can read us the last canto,—­will you?”

I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with his permission.

Neither of them uttered a word.

“Come,” said I; “Constance and I will set off at once, our things are in the hall.  Run up and fetch your manuscript, Gabriel.”

I put my foot through the flounce of my petticoat on the way, so Constance took me up to her room for a needle and cotton.  When we came down again, Gabriel was in the morning-room; he had drawn up the blind and was watching the moon.

“I call this very nice,” said I.  “Our party is the better of the two.”

Constance lighted the lamp, and we sat down, all three, at the table,—­Gabriel with his back to the window, Constance opposite him, and I between them, to the right of the table.