“Mr. Kingcote is shocked, Ada. He thinks that at my age I should have abandoned all such vanities.” “Or perhaps wonders more,” remarked the girl, “that you ever indulged in them.” Kingcote looked from one to the other, but kept silence. “Oh, but we have altogether forgotten Sir Thomas!” Isabel exclaimed. “Where is he? Do read us something, Mr. Kingcote.” Kingcote hesitated. “There are many passages marked in the book,” he said. “Will you let me leave it with you, that you may glance through it? Perhaps it is better suited for reading to oneself.” “Very well; but I will do more than glance. I _once_ knew what it was even to study, Mr. Kingcote, though you will have a difficulty in believing it.” “The idea is not so incongruous,” he said, half seriously. “Though passably so. You are not going?” “I will, if you please.” A heaviness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes; a smile was summoned only with difficulty, and his eyes had a weary look. “But now that we know each other by more than hearsay,” said Isabel, “you will come and see us again?” “Yourself and Miss Warren, gladly; but if I am remiss in visiting you will not misunderstand the reason that keeps me away?” “It shall be as you wish. Ada and I will let you know when we are alone.” Kingcote made his way back to Wood End. CHAPTER VII. Since the disclosure made by Asquith to Ada Warren, the latter and Mrs. Clarendon had continued to live on precisely the same terms as before; no reference, however little explicit, had been made on either side to the subject which naturally occupied the thoughts of both. Ada was not in herself the same as before she understood her position; many little indications which had been wrought in her showed themselves involuntarily. But not in her behaviour to Mrs. Clarendon; that, as hitherto, was cold and reserved, at most the familiarity which comes of companionship in the external things of life. It had always been so; there was a barrier between the two which only united effort could remove, and, though there had been impulses on both sides, a common emotion had never arisen to overthrow the obstacle. They did not understand each other, and, after so many years, there was small chance that they ever would. Very clear in the memory of both was that day when Ada was first seen at Knightswell. Mr. Clarendon died at the end of January; a fortnight later the child was brought over from London by a member of the deceased man’s firm of solicitors. She was poorly dressed, and her teeth chattered after the cold journey. She was handed over to a servant to be attended to, whilst Mrs. Clarendon held a conversation with the lawyer in the library. When the legal gentleman had lunched, and was on his way back to town, Ada was sent for to the boudoir.