Beatrice returned with Mrs. Baxendale.  Her desire to be alone was respected during the rest of the day.  Going to her the last thing at night, her aunt was reassured; weariness had followed upon nervous strain, and the beautiful eyes seemed longing for sleep.

But in the morning appearances were not so hopeful.  The night had after all been a troubled one:  Beatrice declined breakfast and, having dressed with effort, lay on a sofa, her eyes closed.

At noon Mrs. Baxendale came near and said gently: 

‘Dear, you are not going to be ill?’

The sufferer stirred a little, looked in her aunt’s face, rose to a sitting position.

‘Ill?’ She laughed in a forced way.  ’O, that would never do!  Ill after all?  Why, that would spoil everything.  Are you going out this morning?’

‘Certainly not.  I should only have done some idle shopping.’

’Then you shall do the shopping, and I will go with you.  Yes, yes, I will go!  It is the only way.  Let us go where we shall see people; I wish to.  I will be ready in five minutes.’

‘But, Beatrice—.’

’O, don’t fear my looks; you shall see if I betray myself!  Quick, quick,—­to Regent Street, Bond Street, where we shall gee people!  I shall be ready before you.’

They set forth, and Beatrice had no illness.

CHAPTER XXVI

MID-DAY

Once more at The Firs.  Wilfrid had decided to make this his abode.  It was near enough to London to allow of his going backwards and forwards as often as might be necessary; his father’s town house offered the means of change for Emily, and supplied him with a pied-a-terre in time of session.  By limiting his attendance at the House as far as decency would allow, he was able to enjoy with small interruption the quiet of his home in Surrey, and a growing certainty that the life of the present Parliament would be short encouraged him in looking forward to the day when politics would no longer exist for him.

He and Emily established themselves at The Firs towards the end of December, having spent a week with Mr. Athel on their return from the Continent.  Emily’s health had improved, but there was no likelihood that she would ever be other than a delicate flower, to be jealously guarded from the sky’s ruder breath by him to whom she was a life within life.  Ambition as he formerly understood it had no more meaning for Wilfrid; the fine ardour of his being rejected grosser nourishment and burned in altar-flame towards the passion-pale woman whom he after all called wife.  Emily was an unfailing inspiration; by her side the nobler zeal of his youth renewed itself; in the light of her pure soul he saw the world as poetry and strove for that detachment of the intellect which in Emily was a gift of nature.