"Yes. Miss Neville gave me a message to the effect that she did not intend," said she sarcastically, "honouring our poor house with a visit." "Did she write to Miss Neville?" "I fancy not. I think it was mentioned by Mrs. Neville, in a letter she wrote from Ashleigh." "And Mrs. Elrington has never answered your letter?" "No. I suppose she thought the message good enough for us." There was no quivering of the lip, no tell-tale blood in her cheeks, nothing to betray the falsehood she was telling, save her eyes, and those she still bent down. She could not have met her husband's gaze. "Strange," murmured he, "that she should so long keep aloof from us. I should have thought she would have wished to heal up old quarrels." "You know her not," was the reply. "I told you she would not come, and implored you, almost, not to ask me to write to her." "It was my fault you wrote, and I cannot help feeling sorry at her discourtsey; it is so different from what I should have thought she would have done. I liked the little I saw of Mrs. Elrington, she was a true Englishwoman. I wonder what she disliked me for. I suppose she did dislike me?" asked he. "Yes, thoroughly. You supplanted her son." "But you never cared for him, Isabella?" and this time he waited for the eyes to be raised to his. But they were not. Mrs. Linchmore bent lower still over her work, so that not only the eyes, but the face was almost hidden. She seemed to have made some mistake, for, with a slight hasty exclamation, she took the scissors and cut out, hurriedly, what a few moments before she had been so busy with. Again he repeated the question, but not sternly, only sorrowfully and slowly, as if he almost feared the answer, or guessed what it would be. "You never cared for him, Isabella?" But the emotion or embarrassment had passed away, and although Mrs. Linchmore did not look up to meet his gaze, now so searchingly bent on her, she laid down her work and patted the head of the lap-dog lying at her feet. "I liked him as I do Fido," replied she, perhaps a little mockingly. "He was a pretty plaything." But the answer did not satisfy Mr. Linchmore. He withdrew his eyes from her face and sighed. Did he doubt her? Alas! a strange, sad thought had long filled his mind, and would not be chased away. "I am glad you did not _love_ him, Isabella," was all he said. And then he sat silent for some time. At length he spoke again, somewhat suddenly. "To revert to Miss Neville," he said. "I feared her illness might be caused from dulness or ennui. She is so much alone--too much for one so young. Miss Tremlow, even, hinted at it to me the very first day she came downstairs; but I do not see what else is to be done, with these young men in the house." "I invited her down the other day, but she would not come." "I am glad she did not. Why did you ask her?"