‘Sidwell, I am going to be married.  Do you care to hear about it?’

‘Certainly I do.’

Long ago she had been assured of Sylvia Moorhouse’s sincerity in rejecting Buckland’s suit.  That was still a grief to her, but she acknowledged her friend’s wisdom, and was now very curious to learn who it was that the Radical had honoured with his transferred affections.

‘The lady’s name,’ Buckland began, ’is Miss Matilda Renshaw.  She is the second daughter of a dealer in hides, tallow, and that kind of thing.  Both her parents are dead; she has lived of late with her married sister at Blackheath.’

Sidwell listened with no slight astonishment, and her countenance looked what she felt.

‘That’s the bald statement of the cause,’ pursued her brother, seeming to enjoy the consternation he had excited.  ’Now, let me fill up the outline.  Miss Renshaw is something more than good-looking, has had an admirable education, is five-and-twenty, and for a couple of years has been actively engaged in humanitarian work in the East End.  She has published a book on social questions, and is a very good public speaker.  Finally, she owns property representing between three and four thousand a year.’

‘The picture has become more attractive,’ said Sidwell.

’You imagined a rather different person?  If I persuade mother to invite her down here presently, do you think you could be friendly with her?’

‘I see no reason why I should not be.’

‘But I must warn you.  She has nothing to do with creeds and dogmas.’

He tried to read her face.  Sidwell’s mind was a mystery to him.

‘I shall make no inquiry about her religious views,’ his sister replied, in a dispassionate tone, which conveyed no certain meaning.

’Then I feel sure you will like her, and equally sure that she will like you.’

His parents had no distinct fault to find with this choice, though they would both greatly have preferred a daughter-in-law whose genealogy could be more freely spoken of.  Miss Renshaw was invited to Exeter, and the first week of June saw her arrival.  Buckland had in no way exaggerated her qualities.  She was a dark-eyed beauty, perfect from the social point of view, a very interesting talker,—­ in short, no ordinary woman.  That Buckland should have fallen in love with her, even after Sylvia, was easily understood; it seemed likely that she would make him as good a wife as he could ever hope to win.

Sidwell was expecting another letter from the north of England.  The silence which during those first months had been justifiable was now a source of anxiety.  But whether fear or hope predominated in her expectancy, she still could not decide.  She had said to herself that her next reply should not be cowardly, yet she was as far as ever from a courageous resolve.

Mental harassment told upon her health.  Martin, watching her with solicitude, declared that for her sake as much as for Fanny’s they must have a thorough holiday abroad.