She did not seek solitude again, but joined her mother and Alfred in the sitting-room. Mrs. Waltham made no inquiry about the short absence. Alfred had only just called to mind the newspaper which Mr. Keene had given him; and was unfolding it for perusal. His eye caught a marked paragraph, one of a number under the heading ‘Gossip from Town.’ As he read it he uttered a ‘Hullo!’ of surprise. ‘Well, here’s the latest,’ he continued, looking at his companions with an amused eye. ‘Something about that fellow Eldon in a Belwick newspaper. What do you think?’ Adela kept still and mute. ‘Whatever it is, it cannot interest us, Alfred,’ said Mrs. Waltham, with dignity. ‘We had rather not hear it.’ ‘Well, you shall read it for yourself,’ replied Alfred on a second thought. ‘I think you’d like to know.’ His mother took the paper under protest, and glanced down at the paragraph carelessly. But speedily her attention became closer. ‘An item of intelligence,’ wrote the London gossiper, ‘which I dare say will interest readers in certain parts of--shire. A lady of French extraction who made a name for herself at a leading metropolitan theatre last winter, and who really promises great things in the Thespian art, is back among us from a sojourn on the Continent. She is understood to have spent much labour in the study of a new part, which she is about to introduce to us of the modern Babylon. But Albion, it is whispered, possesses other attractions for her besides appreciative audiences. In brief, though she will of course appear under the old name, she will in reality have changed it for one of another nationality before presenting herself in the radiance of the footlights. The happy man is Mr. Hubert Eldon, late of Wanley Manor. We felicitate Mr. Eldon.’ Mrs. Waltham’s hands trembled as she doubled the sheet: there was a gleam of pleasure on her face. ‘Give me the paper when you have done with it,’ she said. Alfred laughed, and whistled a tune as he continued the perusal of Mr. Keene’s political and social intelligence, on the whole as trustworthy as the style in which it was written was terse and elegant. Adela, finding she could feign indifference no longer, went from the room. ‘Where did you get this?’ Mrs. Waltham asked with eagerness as soon as the girl was gone. ‘From the writer himself,’ Alfred replied, visibly proud of his intimacy with a man of letters. ‘Fellow called Keene. Had a long talk with him.’ ‘About this?’ ‘Oh, no. I’ve only just come across it. But he said he’d marked something for Mutimer. I’m to pass the paper on to him.’ ‘I suppose this is the same woman--?’ ‘No doubt.’ ‘You think it’s true?’ ‘True? Why, of course it is. A newspaper with a reputation to support can’t go printing people’s names at haphazard. Keene’s very thick with all the London actors. He told me some first-class stories about--’