He neither saw nor heard from Beatrice till the evening of the following day.  Then it happened that they had to dine at the same house.  On meeting her in the drawing-room, he gave her his hand as usual; hers returned no pressure.  She seemed as cheerful as ever in her talk with others; him she kept apart from.  He could not make up his mind to write.  She had refused to accept such proof of his sincerity as it wag in his power to offer, and Wilfrid made this an excuse—­idle as he knew it to be—­for maintaining a dignified silence.  Dignified, he allowed himself to name it; yet he knew perfectly well that his attitude had one very ignoble aspect, since he all but consciously counted upon Beatrice’s love to bring her back to his feet.  He said to himself:  Let her interpret my silence as she will; if she regard it as evidence of inability to face her—­well, I make no objection.  The conviction all the while grew in him that he did veritably love her, for he felt that, but for his knowledge of her utter devotedness, he would now be in fear lest he should lose her.  Such fear need not occupy a thought; a word, and she flew to him.  He enjoyed this sense of power; to draw out the misunderstanding a little would make reconciliation all the pleasanter.  Then the letters should flame into ashes, and with them vanish even the regret for the blessedness they had promised.

Wednesday morning, and still no letter from Beatrice.  Mr. Athel joked about her speedy resignation of the secretaryship.  Wilfrid joined in the joke, and decided that he would wait one more day, knowing not what a day might bring forth.

CHAPTER XXII

HER PATH IN THE SHADOW

Yielding to the urgency of Beatrice, who was supported in her entreaty by Mrs. Birks, Wilfrid had, a little ere this, consented to sit for his portrait to an artist, a friend of the family, who had already made a very successful picture of Beatrice herself.  The artist resided at Teddington.  Wilfrid was due for a sitting this Wednesday morning, and he went down into the country, intending to be back for lunch and the House of Commons.  But the weather was magnificent, and, the sitting over, truant thoughts began to assail the young legislator.  Bushey Park was at hand, with its chestnut avenue leading to Hampton Court.  A ramble of indefinite duration was, in his present frame of mind, much more attractive than the eloquence of independent members.  He determined to take a holiday.

A very leisurely stroll across the park brought him to the King’s Arms, and the sight of the hostelry suggested pleasant thoughts of sundry refreshing viands and cooling liquors.  He entered and lunched.  It was a holiday, and a truant holiday; he allowed himself champagne.  When he came forth again, his intention to stroll through the galleries of the Palace had given way before the remembered shadow of the chestnuts; he returned to the park, and, after