Emmeline had not been long returned to the house before a servant came and told her that dinner was ready, and that my lord was waiting for her. Their meeting was rather awkward on both sides. Fitzhenry never raised his eyes upon her; but she was now well used to that sort of cold neglect on his part. It was the first time for several months that they had been _tête-à-tête_. This circumstance, and the room they were in, all brought back forcibly to Emmeline’s mind their wedding-day; that day of exultation and joy to her parents, and at its dawn of hope and happiness even to herself—and how had it all ended! To one formed for tenderness, for all the social charities of life, there could not be a more cheerless fate than hers; for, repulsed from where her heart should have found its best home, she was even denied the consolations of confidential friendship. Occupied with these thoughts, Emmeline was little inclined to join in uninteresting, forced conversation. Fitzhenry, too, seemed much depressed, and they ate their repast in nearly total silence. When it was ended, Fitzhenry, under the plea of having several orders to give, and many things to arrange in consequence of the death of Reynolds, soon returned to his own room, and Emmeline passed the remainder of the evening alone. On the approach of midnight, as he never appeared, she concluded that Fitzhenry did not intend to return; she therefore rang for her candle, and left the drawing-room; but before she reached her own apartment, she was met in the gallery by her husband—they both stopped. “I shall leave this place to-morrow,” said Emmeline, in a low voice. “Have you any letters or orders to send by me?” She still fondly hoped he would make some objection to her departure; but he merely replied, that he concluded she was going to Grosvenor-Street; that he would follow in a few days; and that if she did not set out early, he would send some letters by her. “I can go at any hour,” said Emmeline, “I am in no hurry; it does not signify at what time I go; all hours are the same to me.” And so they parted. It was in the same cold, distant manner that they separated next morning, when Emmeline left Arlingford for town. For though she loitered on, always hoping Fitzhenry would let fall some word at which she might catch as an encouragement to stay, he never in any manner opposed her departure; and at last, with a heavy heart, she entered her carriage, and, after a melancholy, solitary journey, drove over London’s noisy pavement, now glazed by a burning May sun, into Grosvenor-Street.