She was icy cold, but very calm, when the breakfast-bell rang.  She went down immediately; because she felt that there was less chance of a recognition if she were already at her place behind the tea-urn, and busied with the cups, than if she came in after all were settled.  Her heart seemed to stand still, but she felt almost a strange exultant sense of power over herself.  She felt, rather than saw, that he was not there.  Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Hickson were, and so busy talking election-politics that they did not interrupt their conversation even when they bowed to her.  Her pupils sat one on each side of her.  Before they were quite settled, and while the other two gentlemen yet hung over the fire, Mr. Donne came in.  Ruth felt as if that moment was like death.  She had a kind of desire to make some sharp sound, to relieve a choking sensation, but it was over in an instant, and she sat on very composed and silent—­to all outward appearance the very model of a governess who knew her place.  And by-and-by she felt strangely at ease in her sense of power.  She could even listen to what was being said.  She had never dared as yet to look at Mr. Donne, though her heart burned to see him once again.  He sounded changed.  The voice had lost its fresh and youthful eagerness of tone, though in peculiarity of modulation it was the same.  It could never be mistaken for the voice of another person.  There was a good deal said at that breakfast, for none seemed inclined to hurry, although it was Sunday morning.  Ruth was compelled to sit there, and it was good for her that she did.  That half-hour seemed to separate the present Mr. Donne very effectively from her imagination of what Mr. Bellingham had been.  She was no analyser; she hardly even had learnt to notice character; but she felt there was some strange difference between the people she had lived with lately and the man who now leant back in his chair, listening in a careless manner to the conversation, but never joining in, or expressing any interest in it, unless it somewhere, or somehow, touched himself.  Now, Mr. Bradshaw always threw himself into a subject; it might be in a pompous, dogmatic sort of way, but he did do it, whether it related to himself or not; and it was part of Mr. Hickson’s trade to assume an interest if he felt it not.  But Mr. Donne did neither the one nor the other.  When the other two were talking of many of the topics of the day, he put his glass in his eye, the better to examine into the exact nature of a cold game-pie at the other side of the table.  Suddenly Ruth felt that his attention was caught by her.  Until now, seeing his short-sightedness, she had believed herself safe; now her face flushed with a painful, miserable blush.  But in an instant she was strong and quiet.  She looked up straight at his face; and, as if this action took him aback, he dropped his glass, and began eating away with great diligence.  She had seen him.  He was changed, she knew not how.  In fact, the expression, which