return.  He walked up to her, thinking that she would recognise his step; but she made no sign of turning towards him.  He saw the motion of her hair over the back of the chair as she affected to make herself luxuriously comfortable.  She was striving to let her husband see that she cared nothing for him, or for his condition, or for his jealousy, if he were jealous—­or even of his ruin.  ‘Mrs Broughton,’ he said, when he was close to her.  Then she jumped up quickly, and turned round facing him.  ‘Where is Dobbs?’ she said.  ‘Where is Dobbs?’

‘He is not here.’

‘He is in the house, for I heard him.  Why have you come back?’

Dalrymple’s eye fell on the tattered canvas, and he thought of the doings of the past month.  He thought of the picture of the three Graces, which was hanging in the room below, and he thoroughly wished that he had never been introduced to the Broughton establishment.  How was he to get through his present difficulty?  ‘No,’ said he, ’Broughton did not come.  It was Mr Musselboro whose steps you heard below.’

’What is he here for?  What is he doing here?  Where is Dobbs?  Conway, there is something the matter.  Has he gone off?’

‘Yes;—­he has gone off.’

‘The coward!’

‘No; he was not a coward;—­not in that way.’

The use of the past tense, unintentional as it had been, told the story to the woman at once.  ‘He is dead,’ she said.  Then he took both her hands in his and looked into her face, without speaking a word.  And she gazed at him with fixed eyes, and rigid mouth, while the quick coming breath just moved the curl of her nostrils.  It occurred to him at that moment that he had never before seen her so wholly unaffected, and had never before observed that she was so totally deficient in all the elements of real beauty.  She was the first to speak again.  ‘Conway,’ she said, ‘tell me all.  Why do you not speak to me?’

‘There is nothing further to tell,’ he said.

Then she dropped her hands and walked away from him to the window—­and stood there looking out upon the stuccoed turret of a huge house that stood opposite.  As she did so she was employing herself in counting the windows.  Her mind was paralysed by the blow, and she knew not how to make any exertion with it for any purpose.  Everything was changed with her—­and was changed in such a way that she could make no guess as to her future mode of life.  She was suddenly a widow, a pauper, and utterly desolate—­while the only person in the whole world that she really liked was standing close to her.  But in the midst of it all she counted the windows of the house opposite.  Had it been possible for her she would have put her mind altogether to sleep.

He let her stand for a few minutes and then joined her at the window.  ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘what shall I do for you?’

‘Do?’ she said.  ‘What do you mean by—­doing?’

‘Come and sit down and let me talk to you,’ he replied.  Then he led her to the sofa, and as she seated herself I doubt whether she had not almost forgotten that her husband was dead.