7.  A QUARTER-PAST EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.

There is an attitude—­approximatively called pensive—­in which the soul of a human being, and especially of a woman, dominates outwardly and expresses its presence so strongly, that the intangible essence seems more apparent than the body itself.  This was Cytherea’s expression now.  What old days and sunny eves at Budmouth Bay was she picturing?  Her reverie had caused her not to notice his knock.

‘Cytherea!’ he said softly.

She let drop her hand, and turned her head, evidently thinking that her visitor could be no other than Manston, yet puzzled at the voice.

There was no preface on Springrove’s tongue; he forgot his position —­hers—­that he had come to ask quietly if Manston had other proofs of being a widower—­everything—­and jumped to a conclusion.

‘You are not his wife, Cytherea—­come away, he has a wife living!’ he cried in an agitated whisper.  ‘Owen will be here directly.’

She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of them afterwards.  ‘Not his wife?  O, what is it—­what—­who is living?’ She awoke by degrees.  ’What must I do?  Edward, it is you!  Why did you come?  Where is Owen?’

’What has Manston shown you in proof of the death of his other wife?  Tell me quick.’

’Nothing—­we have never spoken of the subject.  Where is my brother Owen?  I want him, I want him!’

‘He is coming by-and-by.  Come to the station to meet him—­do,’ implored Springrove.  ’If Mr. Manston comes, he will keep you from me:  I am nobody,’ he added bitterly, feeling the reproach her words had faintly shadowed forth.

‘Mr. Manston is only gone out to post a letter he has just written,’ she said, and without being distinctly cognizant of the action, she wildly looked for her bonnet and cloak, and began putting them on, but in the act of fastening them uttered a spasmodic cry.

‘No, I’ll not go out with you,’ she said, flinging the articles down again.  Running to the door she flitted along the passage, and downstairs.

‘Give me a private room—­quite private,’ she said breathlessly to some one below.

‘Number twelve is a single room, madam, and unoccupied,’ said some tongue in astonishment.

Without waiting for any person to show her into it, Cytherea hurried upstairs again, brushed through the corridor, entered the room specified, and closed the door.  Edward heard her sob out—­

‘Nobody but Owen shall speak to me—­nobody!’

‘He will be here directly,’ said Springrove, close against the panel, and then went towards the stairs.  He had seen her; it was enough.

He descended, stepped into the street, and hastened to meet Owen at the railway-station.