The long winter, the bright spring, the gay summer had twice come and gone, since that November day which had witnessed Katharine's flight, and the rich tints of autumn were upon the beautiful beechwoods of Middlemeads. The place that was to know her no more, never again to be adorned by her graceful presence or enlivened by her beauty, was, to all outward appearance, not a whit the worse for the privation. It was still splendid, still luxurious, still gay; still the home of youth and beauty, of fashion and frivolity. It was Hester Frere's home now; and Gordon was master of the house from which the woman whom he had loved and lost had turned resolutely away, to be lost in utter obscurity. He thought of this at times with keen pain; for a change had passed upon him too, and he was more serious than he had been; which seriousness his wife marked, and, assigning to it as a primary cause one which was but secondary, bitterly resented. Gordon had learned with displeasure as well as astonishment that his wife was the possessor of Middlemeads; the "profitable investment" had no charms for him to counterbalance the unpleasantness and what he felt to be the difficulty of such a position. But what could he do? His wife's friendship with the Streightleys was no reason why she should not live at Middlemeads, since it was evident that not one of those concerned had any notion that her living there was any offence to that friendship. The real reason against it was confined to his knowledge, and must not be imparted to his wife. Had he arbitrarily crossed her wishes, he would have been gratuitously unkind, and that it was not in Gordon's nature to be; and so he went to Middlemeads against his will, and remained there, deriving very moderate pleasure from the abode, and feeling that the coldness and restraint which had sprung up between him and Hester since the occasion of their conversation about Katharine were inexplicably increased by the possession of the place. Since that memorable night Katharine's name had never been spoken between them. Hester knew that her husband and Robert Streightley were much more intimate than they had previously been; and this knowledge fed the jealous passion which devoured her. "They meet to talk of her, these two men whom she took from me," she would think; and her once-powerful and well-trained common-sense failed to come to her aid here, when her need was at its utmost. She would have been desperately angry had she known that Gordon had told Robert his objection to living at Middlemeads, and that it was Robert who had quieted his scruples. "Don't mind about me, Frere," Robert had said. "What does it matter to me? I could never see the place again, you know; and it makes no difference to me who lives there. Hester always liked it, I remember; and I am glad to think she has it now. I am indeed, Frere; I am, upon my honour."