"Alfred, how could you? Oh, this is terrible," murmured Hester, with a look of horror mingled with fear as she glanced at her husband's scowling face. She felt she must protest, whatever it cost her. "Did you not see he wanted to speak to us?--to you particularly? He even held out his hand to you and you were so cold--oh, so cruel!" "Yes, I meant to be! There's no other way of choking off these half-castes. I tell you, Hester, if you want to be a good wife to me you'll cut all that connection with Vepery. It's only a perpetual annoyance to both of us." Hester made no reply, and was glad to take refuge in the carriage and be driven swiftly home without exchanging words with her husband. She absented herself from dinner with a sense of physical illness upon her as well as a heart sick with sorrow and shame. Had she known it, her husband's waking thoughts that evening, as well as his dreams that night, might have found a place in Dante's Inferno. His haggard aspect was piteous to behold when he came down to late breakfast next morning. There had been no rising with the dawn for him; his feverish dreams did not vanish with the night, but made part and parcel of all his daylight hours. CHAPTER XXXI. The first frenzy, which succeeded the reception of the secret imparted to Alfred Rayner at the Shrine of Kali had subsided. Never again after the terrible scene in the drawing-room at Clive's Road when he had crushed the ivory box with such ferocity, and the still more poignant one in which he had spurned his father when brought face to face with him, had the unhappy man given way to any ebullition of temper.