Elizabeth sat, roused out of her sad patience into trembling excitement. Of course, it was far off and doubtful, but it was startling. Bulstrode had not asked her not to mention it to her husband, nor would she have made any such promise. Presently Bulstrode rose to go. Elizabeth realised, without his mentioning it, that if it ever came to Skelton’s ears what Bulstrode had that night told, Deerchase would never harbour him another hour, and she knew it was in pity for her griefs that he had told her at all. She tried to express this to Bulstrode, and he comprehended her. He walked back to Deerchase oppressed with the reaction that follows excitement. Suddenly, as he trudged along the white and sandy road, under the pale splendour of the moon, he remembered Skelton’s words: “You will not do the boy any harm until your heedless tongue begins to wag, and then in pure idleness and wantonness you will tell all you know.” Yes, Skelton was right, as usual. He had not told it in idleness or wantonness, but he had told it. He could fancy Lewis’s face if he had heard what had passed in the Newington drawing-room that night--the shame, grief, reproach, indignation. Bulstrode sighed, and went heavily upon his road home. Mrs. Blair remained sitting in the drawing-room for some hours just as Bulstrode had left her. The candles burned out and the moonlight streamed through the open windows and made patches on the polished floor. A servant went about after a while, shutting the house up, when Mrs. Blair rose and went to her own room. As she passed Hilary’s door everything was still, and she was afraid to open the door for fear it might wake him. She found herself unable to go to bed, though, and at midnight was sitting at her window looking out without seeing anything, although the moon was not yet gone. Presently she heard Blair come softly out of Hilary’s room and go downstairs into his own den, which was called by courtesy a study, but which was littered up with all the impedimenta of a country gentleman. Sometimes during the night watches, when the boy was sleeping, he would slip down there for a smoke. Nothing could exceed Blair’s tenderness to his children, and when they were ill their exquisite fondness for him appeared to redouble. He had just finished his first cigar when the door opened and Elizabeth entered with a candle in her hand. She had on a white dressing wrapper, and her long hair was plaited down her back. Blair knew in an instant from her face that something strange had happened. She came forward and seated herself so that her head rested on his shoulder. Blair at once laid down the cigar he had just lighted. He did not hesitate to ask her to sign away her rights in everything they jointly possessed, but he was careful to treat her with every mark of the most perfect personal respect. “Is Hilary asleep?” she asked. “Soundly. He won’t wake up until morning. You had a visitor. I heard Bulstrode’s voice downstairs.”