Mavis had written to tell Mrs Trivett the old story of her fictitious marriage; she had, also, stated that for the present she wished this fact, together with the parentage of her child, to be kept a strict secret.  Mavis little recked the risk she ran of discovery.  She was obsessed by the desire to breathe the Melkbridge air.  She believed that her presence there would in some way or other make straight the tangle into which she had got her life.  The fly had left Dippenham well behind, and was ambling up and down the inclines of the road.  Mavis looked out at the stone walls which, in these parts, take the place of hedgerows:  she recognised with delight this reminder that she was again in Wiltshire.  Four miles further, she would pass a lodge gate and the grounds of Major Perigal’s place.  She might even catch a glimpse of the house amongst the trees as she passed.  As the miles were wearily surmounted and the dwelling of the loved one came ever nearer, Mavis’s heart beat fast with excitement.  She continually craned her neck from the window to see if the spot she longed to feast her eyes upon were in sight.  When it ultimately crept into view, she could scarcely contain herself for joy.  She caught up her baby from the seat to hold him as high as it was possible in order that he might catch a glimpse of his darling daddy’s home.

The baby arms were hot and dry to the touch, but Mavis was too intent on looking eagerly across the expanse of park to notice this just now.  Many lights flashed in her eyes, to be hidden immediately behind trees.  Her lover’s home was unusually illuminated to-night—­ unusually, because, at other times, when she had passed it, only one or two lights had been visible, Major Perigal living the life of a recluse who disliked intercourse with his species.  Half an hour later, Mavis was putting her baby to bed at Mrs Trivett’s.  His face was flushed, his eyes staring and wide awake; but Mavis put down these manifestations to the trying journey from town.  She went downstairs to eat a few mouthfuls with Mr and Mrs Trivett before returning to his side.  She found them much altered; they had aged considerably and were weighted with care.  Music teaching in Melkbridge was a sorry crutch on which to lean for support.  During the short meal, neither husband nor wife said much.  Mavis wondered if this taciturnity were due to any suspicions they might entertain of Mavis’s unwedded state.  But when Mrs Trivett came upstairs with her, she sat on the bed and burst into tears.

Upon Mavis asking what was amiss, Mrs Trivett told her that they were overwhelmed with debt and consequent difficulties to such an extent, that they did not know from one day to another if they would continue to have a roof over their heads.  She also told Mavis that her coming as a lodger had been in the nature of a godsend, and that she had returned to Melkbridge upon the anniversary of the day on which her husband had commenced his disastrous tenancy of Pennington Farm.