“I am Mrs. Chiltern,” she faltered.

He hesitated the fraction of an instant, but he somehow managed to make it plain that the information was superfluous.  He turned without a word and marched majestically up the aisle before her to the fourth pew from the front on the right.  There he faced about and laid a protesting hand on the carved walnut, as though absolving himself in the sight of his God and his fellow-citizens.  Honora fell on her knees.

She strove to calm herself by prayer:  but the glances of a congregation focussed between her shoulder-blades seemed to burn her back, and the thought of the concentration of so many minds upon her distracted her own.  She could think of no definite prayer.  Was this God’s tabernacle? or the market-place, and she at the tail of a cart?  And was she not Hugh Chiltern’s wife, entitled to his seat in the place of worship of his fathers?  She rose from her knees, and her eyes fell on the softly glowing colours of a stained-glass window:  In memoriam—­Alicia Reyburn Chiltern.  Hugh’s mother, the lady in whose seat she sat.

The organist, a sprightly young man, came in and began turning over his music, and the choir took their-places, in the old-fashioned’ manner.  Then came the clergyman.  His beard was white, his face long and narrow and shrivelled, his forehead protruding, his eyes of the cold blue of a winter’s sky.  The service began, and Honora repeated the familiar prayers which she had learned by heart in childhood—­until her attention was arrested by the words she spoke:  “We have offended against Thy holy laws.”  Had she?  Would not God bless her marriage?  It was not until then that she began to pray with an intensity that blotted out the world that He would not punish her if she had done wrong in His sight.  Surely, if she lived henceforth in fear of Him, He would let her keep this priceless love which had come to her!  And it was impossible that He should regard it as an inordinate and sinful affection—­since it had filled her life with light.  As the wife of Hugh Chiltern she sought a blessing.  Would God withhold it?  He would not, she was sure, if they lived a sober and a righteous life.  He would take that into account, for He was just.

Then she grew calmer, and it was not until after the doctrinal sermon which Hugh had predicted that her heart began to beat painfully once more, when the gentleman who had conducted her to her seat passed her the plate.  He inspired her with an instinctive fear; and she tried to imagine, in contrast, the erect and soldierly figure of General Chiltern performing the same office.  Would he have looked on her more kindly?

When the benediction was pronounced, she made her way out of the church with downcast eyes.  The people parted at the door to let her pass, and she quickened her step, gained the carriage at last, and drove away —­seemingly leaving at her back a buzz of comment.  Would she ever have the courage to do it again?