She went into the dining-room when luncheon was announced, carrying a volume of Browning, and made some pretence of eating, with the book open by the side of her plate, a proceeding upon which the butler expatiated somewhat severely that afternoon as he lingered over tea in the housekeeper's comfortable parlour. "I don't know what's come over the Missus," he said, as he took an unwelcome "stranger" out of his second cup, and parenthetically, "This tea isn't what it was, Mrs. Manby. She don't eat enough for a tomtit, let alone a sparrow--and she's falling back into that dreamy way she was in when Provana was in America, and for a long time before that, as you may remember; that time when it was always not at home to Mr. Rutherford." "She was trying to break with him," said Mrs. Manby. "I give her credit for that." "So you may, but that kind of trying was never known to answer, when once they've begun to carry on," remarked Mr. Sedgewick; "I've watched too many such cases not to know the inevitability of them," he added, having picked up the modern jargon, more or less incorrectly. * * * * * The long day wore on to the melancholy twilight, and Vera was dreading the appearance of her maid to remind her that it was time to dress for her solitary dinner. She had talked lightly of having Lady Susan at her disposal, but she knew that her friend was at that very hour contributing to the vivacity of one of the smartest of the Goodwood house-parties, and would be so engaged till the end of the week. She had thought, in her weariness of the mill-round, that solitude would be better than the Society that had long become distasteful; but she found that, in the melancholy hour between dog and wolf, the shadows in a London house were full of fear, vague and shapeless fear, an oppression that had neither form nor name, and that was infinitely worse than any materialisation. She was standing by the window in her morning-room looking down into the grey emptiness of the wide carriage way, where no carriages were passing, and on pavements where unfashionable pedestrians were moving quickly through a drizzling rain, when a servant announced Father Hammond. "Can you forgive me for calling at such an unorthodox time? I happened to be passing your door, and as I have called several times at the right hour and not found you, I thought I would try the wrong hour." "No hour can be wrong that brings you," she said in a low voice, as she gave him her hand; and the words sounded more sincere than such speeches usually are. "I am glad to hear you say as much, and I believe you. In the whirlpool of frivolity a few serious moments may have the charm of contrast." "I have done with the whirlpool."