She fretted herself until a headache came on, and she was unable to go down to dinner. Lesley brought her up a cup of tea, but her mother refused her company. "I shall be better alone," she said. "Has your father come in yet? Isn't he very late?" It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. Brooke came in, and, hearing that he had been asked for, made his way to his wife's room. He bent over her tenderly, asking her how she felt; and she put one hand up to his rough cheek, without answering. "What has made your head ache, my darling?" he asked. "Caspar, I have been to see Mrs. Romaine." She felt a sort of start or quiver go through him at the name. He put his lips softly to her forehead before he spoke. "Well!" he said, a little dryly. "Did you--did she----" Then she broke down, and sobbed a little with her face against her husband's breast. Caspar's breath grew shorter--a sign of excitement with him--but for a time he waited quietly and would not speak. He could not all at once make up his mind what to say. "Alice," he said at last, "if you ask me questions I suppose I must answer them in one way or another. But--I think I had rather you did not." He felt that every nerve was strained in self-control as she listened to him. "Mrs. Romaine," he went on deliberately, "is not a woman that I like--or--respect. I would very much prefer not to talk about her." "I must tell you just one thing," she whispered, "it was my feeling about her--my jealousy of her--that made me leave you--twelve years ago." She had surprised him now. "Alice! Impossible," he said. "Why, my poor girl, there was not the slightest reason. I can most solemnly swear to you, Alice, that I never had any other feeling for Mrs. Romaine than that of ordinary friendship. My dear, will you never believe that you have always been the one woman in all the world for me?" "Forgive me, Caspar," she murmured, "I do believe it now." * * * * * At the same hour, a haggard and despairing woman raised herself from the floor where she had lain for many weary hours, trying by passionate tears and cries and outbursts of unavailing lamentation to exhaust or stifle the anguish which seemed to have reached its most intolerable point. Her robes were soiled and crushed, her hair was dishevelled, her eyes were red with weeping; and, as she rose, she wrung her hands together and then raised them in appeal to the God whom she had so long forgotten and forsaken.