As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh.  On first hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton; his distress was extreme.  But it was useless for him to remain, and business demanded his return to Leeds.  Neither he nor Madeline was yet aware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of recovery.  Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally regarded, but she could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and not a word in her letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that she might yet be well again.  Clifford wrote very frequently for the first year, with a great deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion and encouragement.  Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her be assured of his fidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his wife.  A considerable part of his letters was always occupied with lamentation over the cursed fate that bound him to the Philistines, though he took care to repeat that this was the result of his own choice, and that he blamed no one—­unless it were his gross-minded step-father, who had driven him to such an alternative.  These bewailings grew less vehement as his letters became shorter and arrived at longer intervals; there began to be a sameness in the tone, even in the words.  When his yearly holiday came round, he promised to visit Southampton, but after all never did so.  What was the use? he wrote.  It only meant keener misery to both.  Instead of coming south, he had gone into Scotland.

And Madeline no longer expressed a wish to see him.  Her own letters grew shorter and calmer, containing at length very little about herself, but for the most part news of family affairs.  Every now and then Clifford seemed to rouse himself to the effort of repeating his protestations, of affirming his deathless faith; but as a rule he wrote about trifles, sometimes even of newspaper matters.  So did the second year of Madeline’s martyrdom come to its close.

Quarrelling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara prepared the lodger’s dinner between them.  This Mrs. Travis was not exacting; she had stipulated only for a cutlet, or something of the kind, with two vegetables, and a milk pudding.  Whatever was proposed seemed to suit her.  The Denyers knew nothing about her, except that she was able to refer them to a lady who had a house in Mayfair; her husband, she said, was abroad.  She had brought a great deal of luggage, including books to the number of fifty or so.

When the moment for decision came, Barbara snatched up the folded white table-cloth, threw it with knives, forks, and plates upon a tray, and ascended to the lodger’s sitting-room.  Her cheeks were hot; her eyes flashed.  She had donned the most elegant attire in her possession, had made her hair magnificent.  Her knock at the door was meant to be a declaration of independence; it sounded peremptory.

Mrs. Travis was in an easy-chair, reading.  She looked up absently; then smiled.