She managed to get into an empty carriage, shut the door, and stood up by the window, winking sternly at the passengers who, in passing, hesitated whether or not to enter. As the train moved off she shut the window, and, sitting down with a sigh, stared out at the fir-woods and the picturesque Surrey cottages. She did not see them; she saw nothing and heard nothing but the rattle of the train, that gradually shaped itself into the word Liphook—Liphook—Liphook—till she was maddened. “It might have been some one writing to importune him for money,” she said, thinking of the letter. But if the difficulty at Liphook were only a debt, she felt certain that Alfred Wimple would not have spared her the annoyance of knowing it. It was a mystery of which her indomitable pride refused her even the suggestion of one solution, which yet seemed gradually, and from without, to be getting burned upon her brain. A despair that was half dread was taking possession of her. A desperate knowledge was bearing down upon her that the only chance she had of keeping the man to whom she had bound herself was by giving him money. He was evidently at his wit’s end for it, and had no resource of his own, for whatever was the attraction at Liphook it did not seem to include money. Her one chance was to give it him, and to let him see that she would not fail to give it him—then, perhaps, he would stay with her. She stretched out her arms for a moment as if she were drowning, and trying to save herself by holding on to him, but she stretched them only into space, and clutched nothing. “Perhaps he thinks because I am old I cannot love properly. Oh, my dear one, if you would only speak to me out of your own heart, or if you could only look into my heart—for that is not old; it is young. Age makes no difference if he did but know it—I feel the same as when I was twenty, and we walked between the chestnuts to the farm. It is only the years that have marked me.” And then anger and pride chased away her misery and tenderness. “I will have it settled,” she said; “I will know what it means; and if he has not treated me properly he shall be called to account. If Walter and Florence were only in England, I should not be in this sad dilemma.” The mention of their names made her remember the letter in her pocket. She pulled it out and opened it; it was the one Mrs. North had written from Marseille. At another time she would have liked the congratulations, or have been indignant at the divorce. Now she passed the news by with little more than a scornful wink. “It is most presumptuous of her to have written to me; she has taken a great liberty; she has committed a solecism,” she said, almost mechanically. As she put the letter back into her pocket her hand touched something she did not remember to have placed there. She looked puzzled for a moment, then drew it out. It was a little necktie of Alfred Wimple’s, blue with white spots on it. She