She awoke with that confused impression of distress, which the unhappy know so well; which oppresses the mind even before we can clearly remember what occasions it. Still she was refreshed by those few hours of sleep, and felt better able to encounter the dreaded meeting with her husband than she could have thought possible. She got up and rang for her maid. From her window, she had seen Fitzhenry out before the house, and she hurried herself to be in the breakfast-room before his return. While she was dressing, she schooled herself in the part she was to act, and resolved to meet him with the unembarrassed kindness of friendship. Had she had to expect him _one_ minute longer, her nerves would have failed her; but she saw him hurry towards the house. The servants had fortunately left the room. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and in he came. He was deadly pale; Emmeline went up to him,—held out her hand. Hardly knowing what she said, she made some remark on the weather, the heat, and, without pausing, in a hurried voice, asked him some other indifferent questions. Fitzhenry returned the pressure of her hand, once looked in her face, apparently with surprise; tried to speak, and at last, in time, overcame his agitation; but never again did his eyes meet hers, or were they even ever raised towards her. He had brought into the room with him some greyhounds, apparently as subjects for conversation. They fawned and jumped on their master; and the noise and bustle they made—the feeding them, and Emmeline’s endeavours to ingratiate herself in their favour, was a something to do, and a relief. During that melancholy breakfast, of which neither eat, Emmeline was the one who played her part the best. When it was gone, Fitzhenry said, “I have some letters I must write”—and, struck with the possible interpretation of his own words, he coloured deeply; “but they will soon be written,” he added hastily, “and probably you too will wish to write to tell your mother of your sate arrival; and,”—again embarrassed, he stopped short. However, in a minute, he recovered himself, and said, “The post leaves at one; after that, if the day continues fine, you will perhaps like to go out and see the place. I don’t know what sort of a horsewoman you may be, but I have a very docile animal, if you will venture to mount him.” Emmeline, who had ridden much, and thought that that species of exercise, with a groom attending, would, under their awkward circumstances, be better than a _tête-à-tête_ walk, directly said she had no fears, and would prefer riding. Thus they parted; and Emmeline went to her own room to write to her parents. It was then that the melancholy of her prospects overcame her with a bitterness she had not before experienced.