‘So Mutimer’s going to throw it up.’

‘What?’ she asked in surprise.

He nodded towards New Wanley.

‘Throw it up?’

’So I understand.  Don’t mention that I said anything; I supposed you knew.’

‘I knew nothing.  You mean that he is going to abandon the works?’

’Something of the kind, I fancy.  I don’t know that it’s decided, but that fellow Rodman—­well, time enough to talk about it.  It’s a pity, that’s all I can say.  Still, if he’s really losing—­’

‘Losing?  But he never expected to make money.’

’No, but I fancy he’s beginning to see things in a different light.  I tell you what it is, Adela; I can’t stand that fellow Rodman.  I’ve got an idea he’s up to something.  Don’t let him lead Mutimer by the nose, that’s all.  But this isn’t Sunday talk.  Youngster rather obstreperous this morning.’

Adela had no desire to question further:  she let her brother pass on, and continued her own walk at a more moderate pace.

Alfred’s words put her in mind of considerations to which in her excitement she had given no thought.  New Wanley was no longer her husband’s property, and the great Socialist undertaking must come to an end.  In spite of her personal feeling, she could not view with indifference the failure of an attempt which she had trained herself to regard as nobly planned, and full of importance to the world at large.  Though she no longer saw Mutimer’s character in the same light as when first she bent her nature to his direction, she still would have attributed to him a higher grief than the merely self-regarding; she had never suspected him of insincerity in his public zeal.  Mutimer had been scrupulous to avoid any utterance which might betray half-heartedness; in his sullen fits of late he had even made it a reproach against her that she cared little for his own deepest interests.  To his wife last of all he would have confessed a failing in his enthusiasm:  jealousy had made him discourteous, had lowered the tone of his intercourse with her; but to figure as a hero in her eyes was no less, nay more, than ever a leading motive in his life.  But if what Alfred said was true, Adela saw that in this also she had deceived herself:  the man whose very heart was in a great cause would sacrifice everything, and fight on to the uttermost verge of hope.  There was no longer room for regret on his account.

On reaching the Manor gates she feared to walk straight up to the house; she felt that, if she met her husband, she could not command her face, and her tongue would falter.  She took a path which led round to the gardens in the rear.  She had remembered a little summer-house which stood beyond the kitchen-garden, in a spot sure to be solitary at this hour.  There she could read the will attentively, and fix her resolution before entering the house.

Trees and bushes screened her.  She neared the summerhouse, and was at the very door before she perceived that it was occupied.  There sat ’Arry and a kitchenmaid, very close to each other, chatting confidentially.  ’Arry looked up, and something as near a blush as he was capable of came to his face.  The kitchen damsel followed the direction of his eyes, and was terror-stricken.