Lady Markham did not say “Dear Sir Thomas!” as she had said “Dear boy!” but her look was the same as that which she had turned upon Claude. She was in no doubt as to what his account of her would be. “She can persuade him, if anybody can,” he said. “I think I shall go and see him as soon as I can get away--if you do not object. To bring our dear Waring back, to see you two together again, who have always been the objects of my warmest admiration----” “You are too kind. You have always had a higher opinion of me than I deserve,” she said. “One can only be grateful. One cannot try to persuade you that you are mistaken. As for my--husband”--there was the slightest momentary pause before she said the name--“I fear you will never get him to think so well of me as you do. It is a great misfortune; but still it sometimes happens that other people think more of a woman than--her very own.” “You must not say that. Waring adored you.” She shook her head again. “He had a great admiration,” she said, “for a woman to whom he gave my name. But he discovered that it was a mistake; and for me in my own person he had no particular feeling. Think a little whether you are doing wisely. If you should succeed in bringing us two together again----” “What then?” She did not say any more: her face grew pale, as by a sudden touch or breath. When such a tie as marriage is severed, if by death or by any other separation, it is not a light thing to renew it again. The thought of that possibility--which yet was not a possibility--suddenly realised, sent the blood back to Lady Markham’s heart. It was not that she was unforgiving, or even that she had not a certain remainder of love for her husband. But to resume those habits of close companionship after so many years--to give up her own individuality, in part at least, and live a dual life--this thought startled her. She had said that she would put no difficulties in the way. But then she had not thought of all that was involved.