‘I do hope it won’t be too much for you,’ she said. ‘Pray leave as soon as you feel you ought to. I should never forgive myself if you took a cold or anything of the kind.’ Really, Alice had supplied herself with most becoming phrases. The novels had done much; and then she had been living in society. At dinner she laughed rather too loud, it might be, and was too much given to addressing her husband as ‘Willis;’ but her undeniable prettiness in low-necked evening dress condoned what was amiss in manner. Mr. Rodman looked too gentlemanly; he reminded one of a hero of polite melodrama on the English-French stage. The Captain talked stock-exchange, and was continually inquiring about some one or other, ‘Did he drop much?’ Mutimer was staying at the house over-night. After dinner he spoke aside with Adela. ‘I suppose you go back to-morrow?’ ‘Yes, I meant to.’ ‘We may as well go together, then. I’ll call for you at two o’clock.’ He considered, and changed the hour. ‘No, I’ll come at ten. I want you to go with me to buy some things. Then we’ll have lunch here.’ ‘And go back for my luggage?’ ‘We’ll take it away at ten o’clock and leave it at the station. I suppose you can be ready?’ ‘Yes, I can be ready,’ Adela answered mechanically. He drove back with her to Avenue Road in the Rodmans’ carriage, and left her at the door. Mr. Westlake was expected home to-night, but had telegraphed to say that he would return in the morning. Stella had spent the evening alone; Adela found her in the boudoir with a single lamp, reading. ‘Are you still feverish?’ Stella asked, putting to her cheek the ungloved hand. ‘I think not--I can’t say.’ Stella waited to hear something about the evening, but Adela broke the silence to say: ‘I must leave at ten in the morning. My husband will call for me.’ ‘So early?’ ‘Yes.’ There was silence again. ‘Will you come and see me before long, Stella?’ ‘I will,’ was the gentle reply. ‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it very much.’ Then Adela said good-night, speaking more cheerfully. In her bedroom she sat as before dinner. The fever had subsided during the past two hours, but now it crept into her blood again, insidious, tingling. And with it came so black a phantom of despair that Adela closed her eyes shudderingly, lay back as one lifeless, and wished that it were possible by the will alone to yield the breath and cease. The night pulsed about her, beat regularly like a great clock, and its pulsing smote upon her brain. To-morrow she must follow her husband, who would come to lead her home. Home? what home had she? What home would she ever have but a grave in the grassy churchyard of Wanley? Why did death spare her when it took the life which panted but for a moment on her bosom?