"Yes," said Lord Caterham, "that's the worst of it; that, and his unsuspiciousness,--he does not see what the most casual visitor to their house sees; he does not perceive the weariness of spirit that is the first thing, next to her beauty, which every one with common perception must recognise. She takes no pains--she does not make the least attempt to hide it. Why, to-day, when she recovered, when her eyes opened--such gloomy eyes they were!--and Ludlow was kneeling here,"--he pointed down beside the couch he lay on--"bending over her,--did she look up at him?--did she meet the gaze fixed on her and smile, or try to smile, to comfort and reassure him? Not she: I was watching her; she just opened her eyes and let them wander round, turned her head from him, and let it fall against the side of the couch as if she never cared to lift it more." "Poor Geoffrey!" said Annie again; this time with a sob. "Yes, indeed, Annie," he went on; "I pity him, as much as I mistrust her. He has never told you any thing about her antecedents, has he?--and I suppose she has not been more communicative?" "No," replied Annie; "I know nothing more than I have told you. She has always been the same when I have seen her--trying, I thought, to seem and be happier than at first, but very languid still. Geoffrey said sometimes that she was rather out of spirits, but he seemed to think it was only delicate health--and I hoped so too, though I could not help fearing you were right in all you said that day. O, Arthur, isn't it hard to think of Geoffrey loving her so much, and working so hard, and getting so poor a return?" "It is indeed, Annie," said Lord Caterham, with a strange wistful look at her; "it is very hard. But I fear there are harder things than that in store for Ludlow. He is not conscious of the extent of his misfortune, if even he knows of its existence at all. I fear the time is coming when he must know all there is to be known, whatever it may be. That woman has a terrible secret in her life, Annie, and the desperate weariness within her--how she let it show when she was recovering from the swoon!--will force it into the light of day before long. Her dreary quietude is the calm before the storm." "I suppose I had better write this evening and inquire for her," said Annie, after a pause; "and propose to call on her. It will gratify Geoffrey." "Do so," said Lord Caterham; "I will write to Ludlow myself." Annie wrote her kind little letter, and duly received a reply. Mrs. Ludlow was much better, but still rather weak, and did not feel quite able to receive Miss Maurice's kindly-proffered visit just at present. "I am very glad indeed of that, Annie," said Lord Caterham, to whom she showed the note; "you cannot possibly do Ludlow any good, my child; and something tells me that the less you see of her the better."