’Certainly.  Here again I may be altogether wrong, but it seems to me that to a woman of her character there was only one course open.  Having become his wife, it behoved her to be loyal, and especially—­remember this—­it behoved her to put her position beyond doubt in the eyes of others, in the eyes of one, it may be, beyond all.  Does that throw no light on your meeting with her in the wood, of which you make so much?’

Hubert’s countenance shone, but only for an instant.

‘Ingenious,’ he replied, good-humouredly.

‘Possibly no more,’ Mr. Wyvern rejoined.  ’Take it as a fanciful sketch of how a woman’s life might be ordered.  Such a life would not lack its dignity.’

Neither spoke for a while.

‘You will call on Mrs. Westlake as you pass through London?’ Mr. Wyvern next inquired.

‘Mrs. Westlake?’ the other repeated absently.  ’Yes, I dare say I shall see her.’

‘Do, by all means.’

They began to descend the hill.

The Walthams no longer lived in Wanley.  A year ago the necessities of Alfred Waltham’s affairs had led to a change; he and his wife and their two children, together with Mrs. Waltham the dowager, removed to what the auctioneers call a commodious residence on the outskirts of Belwick.  Alfred remarked that it was as well not to be so far from civilisation; he pointed out, too, that it was time for him to have an eye to civic dignities, if only a place on the Board of Guardians to begin with.  Our friend was not quite so uncompromising in his political and social opinions as formerly.  His wife observed that he ceased to subscribe to Socialist papers, and took in a daily of orthodox Liberal tendencies—­that is to say, an organ of capitalism.  Letty rejoiced at the change, but knew her husband far too well to make any remark upon it.

To their house, about three months after her husband’s death, came Adela.  The intermediate time she had passed with Stella.  All were very glad to have her at Belwick—­Letty in particular, who, though a matron with two bouncing boys, still sat at Adela’s feet and deemed her the model of womanhood.  Adela was not so sad as they had feared to find her.  She kept a great deal to her own room, but was always engaged in study, and seemed to find peace in that way.  She was silent in her habits, scarcely ever joining in general conversation; but when Letty could steal an hour from household duties and go to Adela’s room she was always sure of hearing wise and tender words in which her heart delighted.  Her pride in Adela was boundless.  On the day when the latter first attired herself in modified mourning, Letty, walking with her in the garden, could not refrain from saying how Adela’s dress became her.

‘You are more beautiful every day, dear,’ she added, in spite of a tremor which almost checked her in uttering a compliment which her sister might think too frivolous.

But Adela blushed, one would have thought it was with pleasure.  Sadness, however, followed, and Letty wondered whether the beautiful face was destined to wear its pallor always.