But Monica could not be moved.  She refused to go again under her husband’s roof until he had stated that his charge against her was absolutely unfounded.  This concession went beyond Widdowson’s power; he would forgive, but still declined to stultify himself by a statement that could have no meaning.  To what extent his wife had deceived him might be uncertain, but the deception was a proved fact.  Of course it never occurred to him that Monica’s demand had a significance which emphasized the name of Barfoot.  Had he said, ’I am convinced that your relations with Barfoot were innocent,’ he would have seemed to himself to be acquitting her of all criminality; whereas Monica, from her point of view, illogically supposed that he might credit her on this one issue without overthrowing all the evidence that declared her untrustworthy.  In short, she expected him to read a riddle which there was scarcely a possibility of his understanding.

Alice was in correspondence with the gloomy husband.  She promised him to use every effort to gain Monica’s confidence.  Perhaps as the eldest sister she might succeed where Virginia had failed.  Her faith in Monica’s protestations had been much shaken by the item of intelligence which Virginia secretly communicated; she thought it too likely that her unhappy sister saw no refuge from disgrace but in stubborn denial of guilt.  And in the undertaking that was before her she had no hope save through the influence of religion—­with her a much stronger force than with either of the others.

Her arrival was expected on the last day of September.  The evening before, Monica went to bed soon after eight o’clock; for a day or two she had suffered greatly, and at length had allowed a doctor to be called.  Whenever her sister retired very early, Virginia also went to her own bedroom, saying that she preferred to sit there.

The room much surpassed in comfort that which she had occupied at Mrs. Conisbee’s; it was spacious, and provided with a couple of very soft armchairs.  Having locked her door, Virginia made certain preparations which had nothing to do with natural repose.  From the cupboard she brought out a little spirit-kettle, and put water to boil.  Then from a more private repository were produced a bottle of gin and a sugar-basin, which, together with a tumbler and spoon, found a place on a little table drawn up within reach of the chair where she was going to sit.  On the same table lay a novel procured this afternoon from the library.  Whilst the water was boiling, Virginia made a slight change of dress, conducive to bodily ease.  Finally, having mixed a glass of gin and water—­one-third only of the diluent—­she sat down with one of her frequent sighs and began to enjoy the evening.