She glanced at her father, as if to acquaint him with this news; but the Doctor was deep in a leading-article, and she did not disturb him.  Eustace had correspondence of his own which engrossed him.  No one seemed disposed for talk this morning.

The letter which most interested her came from Helen Borisoff, who was now at home, in Paris.  It was the kind of letter that few people are so fortunate as to receive nowadays, covering three sheets with gaiety and good-nature, with glimpses of interesting social life and many an amusing detail.  Mrs. Borisoff was establishing herself for the winter, which promised all sorts of good things yonder on the Seine.  She had met most of the friends she cared about, among whom were men and women with far-echoing names.  With her husband she was on delightful terms; he had welcomed her charmingly; he wished her to convey his respectful homage to the young English lady with whom his wife had become liee, and the hope that at no distant time he might make her acquaintance.  After breakfast, Irene lingered over this letter, which brightened her imagination.  Paris shone luringly as she read.  Had circumstances been different, she would assuredly have spent a month there with Helen.

Well, she was going to Egypt, after—­

One glance she gave at Arnold’s short note.  “My dear Irene”—­“In haste, but ever yours.”  These lines did not tempt her to muse.  Yet Arnold was ceaselessly in her mind.  She wished to see him, and at the same time feared his coming.  As for the house, it occupied her thoughts with only a flitting vagueness.  Why so much solicitude about the house?  In any decent quarter of London, was not one just as good as another?  But for the risk of hurting Arnold, she would have begged him to let her off the inspection, and to manage the business as he thought fit.

A number of small matters claimed her attention during the morning, several of them connected with her marriage.  Try as she might, she could not bring herself to a serious occupation with these things; they seemed trivial and tiresome.  Her thoughts wandered constantly to the house at Campden Hill, which had a tragic fascination.  She had promised to see her aunt to-day, but it would be difficult to find time, unless she could manage to get there between her business with Arnold and the hour of dinner.  Olga was to telegraph if anything happened.  A chill misgiving took hold upon her as often as she saw her aunt’s face, so worn and woe-stricken; and it constantly hovered before her mind’s eye.

The revelation made to her yesterday had caused a mental shock greater than she had yet realised.  That Mrs. Hannaford, a woman whom she had for many years regarded as elderly, should be possessed and overcome by the passion of love, was a thing so strange, so at conflict with her fixed ideas, as to be all but incredible.  In her aunt’s presence, she scarcely reflected upon it; she saw only a woman