At midday she made but the pretence of a meal.  It was not until afterwards, in wandering through the lower rooms of this house, become so dear to her, that agitation seized her, and a desire to weep.  What was she leaving so precipitately? and whither going?  The world indeed was wide, and these rooms had been her home.  The day had grown blue-grey, and in the dining room the gentle face seemed to look down upon her compassionately from the portrait.  The scent of the roses overpowered her.  As she listened, no sound brake the quiet of the place.

Would Howard never come?  The train was in—­had been in ten minutes.  Hark, the sound of wheels!  Her heart beating wildly, she ran to the windows of the drawing-room and peered through the lilacs.  Yes, there he was, ascending the steps.

“Mrs. Spence is out, I suppose,” she heard him say to the butler, who followed with his bag.

“No, sir, she’s is the drawing-room.”

The sight of him, with his air of satisfaction and importance, proved an unexpected tonic to her strength.  It was as though he had brought into the room, marshalled behind him, all the horrors of her marriage, and she marvelled and shuddered anew at the thought of the years of that sufferance.

“Well, I’m back,” he said, “and we’ve made a great killing, as I wrote you.  They were easier than I expected.”

He came forward for the usual perfunctory kiss, but she recoiled, and it was then that his eye seemed to grasp the significance of her travelling suit and veil, and he glanced at her face.

“What’s up?  Where are you going?” he demanded.  “Has anything happened?”

“Everything,” she said, and it was then, suddenly, that she felt the store of her resolution begin to ebb, and she trembled.  “Howard, I am going away.”

He stopped short, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his checked trousers.

“Going away,” he repeated.  “Where?”

“I don’t know,” said Honora; “I’m going away.”

As though to cap the climax of tragedy, he smiled as he produced his cigarette case.  And she was swept, as it were, by a scarlet flame that deprived her for the moment of speech.

“Well,” he said complacently, “there’s no accounting for women.  A case of nerves—­eh, Honora?  Been hitting the pace a little too hard, I guess.”  He lighted a match, blissfully unaware of the quality of her look.  “All of us have to get toned up once in a while.  I need it myself.  I’ve had to drink a case of Scotch whiskey out West to get this deal through.  Now what’s the name of that new boat with everything on her from a cafe to a Stock Exchange?  A German name.”

“I don’t know,” said Honora.  She had answered automatically.

To the imminent peril of one of the frailest of Mrs. Forsythe’s chairs, he sat down on it, placed his hands on his knees, flung back his head, and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.  Still she stared at him, as in a state of semi-hypnosis.