“MariaW. Simpson.”

The sheet fluttered to the floor.

When Sunday came, for the first time her courage failed her.  She had heard the wind complaining in the night, and the day dawned wild and wet.  She got so far as to put on a hat and veil and waterproof coat; Starling had opened the doors, and through the frame of the doorway, on the wet steps, she saw the footman in his long mackintosh, his umbrella raised to escort her to the carriage.  Then she halted, irresolute.  The impassive old butler stood on the sill, a silent witness, she knew, to the struggle going on within her.  It seemed ridiculous indeed to play out the comedy with him, who could have recited the lines.  And yet she turned to him.

“Starling, you may send the coachman back to the stable.”

“Very good, madam.”

As she climbed the stairs she saw him gravely closing the doors.  She paused on the landing, her sense of relief overborne by a greater sense of defeat.  There was still time!  She heard the wheels of the carriage on the circle—­yet she listened to them die away.  Starling softly caught the latch, and glanced up.  For an instant their looks crossed, and she hurried on with palpitating breast, reached her boudoir, and closed the door.  The walls seemed to frown on her, and she remembered that the sitting-room in St. Louis had worn that same look when, as a child, she had feigned illness in order to miss a day at school.  With a leaden heart she gazed out on the waste of melting snow, and then tried in vain to read a novel that a review had declared amusing.  But a question always came between her and the pages:  was this the turning point of that silent but terrible struggle, when she must acknowledge to herself that the world had been too strong for her?  After a while her loneliness became unbearable.  Chiltern was in the library.

“Home from church?” he inquired.

“I didn’t go, Hugh.”

He looked up in surprise.

“Why, I thought I saw you start,” he said.

“It’s such a dreary day, Hugh.”

“But that has never prevented you before.”

“Don’t you think I’m entitled to one holiday?” she asked.

But it was by a supreme effort she kept back the tears.  He looked at her attentively, and got up suddenly and put his hands upon her shoulders.  She could not meet his eyes, and trembled under his touch.

“Honora,” he said, “why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“What do you mean, Hugh?”

“I have been wondering how long you’d stand it.  I mean that these women, who call themselves Christians, have been brutal to you.  They haven’t so much as spoken to you in church, and not one of them has been to this house to call.  Isn’t that so?”