But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any information to impart. She did not say so. Probably she only wished to express her faith in him, and to assure him of her friendship. Rosalind had been his friend through many a long year. She had always shown herself kind and sympathetic--in spite of one or two interludes of coldness and general oddity which Caspar had never felt able to understand. It would be pleasant enough to hear her say that she trusted him--he could not help feeling that. For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence of any message from his wife. He could almost have worked himself into a rage at the thought of it. "Does she, too, think me guilty?" he asked himself. "She ought to know me better, although she does not love me! She ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold and too proud to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has tried to win her sympathy for me and failed. Well, I never expected otherwise: she never gave me what I wanted--sympathy, understanding, or love! And how can she blame me"--the thought stole unawares into his mind--"if I turn for sympathy to one who offers it?" Yes, Rosalind would sympathize, and there would be no harm in listening to her gentle words. He had the pen in his hand, paper and ink before him: a word would be enough, if he wished to stay her visit. But he would not write it: if she liked to come, she might come--he would be glad to see her. Besides, her letter wanted explanation: for what had she to forgive? He pushed the writing materials away from him, and went to the fireplace, where a small fire was burning very dimly. The day was cloudy, and the afternoon was drawing in. He crushed the coal with the heel of his boot in order to make a flame leap up; then leaned his elbow on the narrow mantelpiece and gazed down into the glowing embers. The door opened and closed again behind him, but at first he did not look up. He thought that the attendant had come to light the gas or bring him some tea. But when he heard no further sound, he suddenly stirred and looked up; and in the dim light he saw beside him the figure of a woman, cloaked and veiled. Was it Rosalind? No, it was too tall for Rosalind Romaine. Not Lesley?--though it had a look of her! And then his heart gave a tremendous leap (although no one would have suspected it, for his massive form and bearded face remained as motionless and calm as ever), for it dawned upon him that the visitor was none other than Lesley's mother, his wife, Alice Brooke, who had quitted him in anger twelve years before. "I beg your pardon," he said, courteously. "I did not see--I had no idea who it was. Will you not sit down?" He handed her a chair, with a bow as formal as that of a complete stranger. Perhaps the formality was inevitable. Lady Alice put her hand on the back of the chair, and felt that she was trembling.