She returned home from the lecture to-day full of dread—­dread more active than she had yet known.  And it drove her to a step she had timidly contemplated for more than a week.  She stole from the house, bent on seeing Mr. Wyvern.  She could not confess to him, but she could speak of the conflict between her mother’s will and her own, and beg his advice; perhaps, if he appeared favourable, ask him to intercede with her mother.  She had liked Mr. Wyvern from the first meeting with him, and a sense of trust had been nourished by each succeeding conversation.  In her agitation she thought it would not be hard to tell him so much of the circumstances as would enable him to judge and counsel.

Yet it was with relief, on the whole, that she turned homewards with her object unattained.  It would be much better to wait and test herself yet further.  Why should she not speak with her mother about that vow she was asked to make?

She did not seek solitude again, but joined her mother and Alfred in the sitting-room.  Mrs. Waltham made no inquiry about the short absence.  Alfred had only just called to mind the newspaper which Mr. Keene had given him; and was unfolding it for perusal.  His eye caught a marked paragraph, one of a number under the heading ’Gossip from Town.’  As he read it he uttered a ‘Hullo!’ of surprise.

‘Well, here’s the latest,’ he continued, looking at his companions with an amused eye.  ’Something about that fellow Eldon in a Belwick newspaper.  What do you think?’

Adela kept still and mute.

‘Whatever it is, it cannot interest us, Alfred,’ said Mrs. Waltham, with dignity.  ‘We had rather not hear it.’

‘Well, you shall read it for yourself,’ replied Alfred on a second thought.  ‘I think you’d like to know.’

His mother took the paper under protest, and glanced down at the paragraph carelessly.  But speedily her attention became closer.

‘An item of intelligence,’ wrote the London gossiper, ’which I dare say will interest readers in certain parts of—­shire.  A lady of French extraction who made a name for herself at a leading metropolitan theatre last winter, and who really promises great things in the Thespian art, is back among us from a sojourn on the Continent.  She is understood to have spent much labour in the study of a new part, which she is about to introduce to us of the modern Babylon.  But Albion, it is whispered, possesses other attractions for her besides appreciative audiences.  In brief, though she will of course appear under the old name, she will in reality have changed it for one of another nationality before presenting herself in the radiance of the footlights.  The happy man is Mr. Hubert Eldon, late of Wanley Manor.  We felicitate Mr. Eldon.’

Mrs. Waltham’s hands trembled as she doubled the sheet:  there was a gleam of pleasure on her face.

‘Give me the paper when you have done with it,’ she said.