By four o’clock that afternoon the boxes were all packed and corded, the carriage ordered, and everything ready for their departure by the seven-o’clock train from the Northern Railway. Lady Gwendolyn managed to swallow a cutlet, and drink a couple of glasses of light wine, as a preparation for the journey; and then she dressed herself, while Phœbe was down-stairs, fortifying herself against contingencies. But before leaving the hotel, Lady Gwendolyn put the telegram which had given her such sorrowful information into an envelope, directed it to Colonel Dacre, “Hotel d’Albion,” stamped it, and then put it into her pocketbook, ready to post in Calais. She thought it explained everything, without its being necessary for her to add a single word; and she was too utterly miserable to write. Neither did she care to blame him, for she remembered, as the only thing in his extenuation, that she had given way too weakly at first, and ought never to have married him until she had thoroughly investigated the Borton mystery, and made him prove that he was really free. But she had been too eager to secure herself a little happiness, and she had loved him so foolishly. That was her excuse; and, though it may seem a poor one to some, there are others who will understand it, and pity the poor desolate woman, who had found the thing she had coveted turn to ashes in her mouth, like the apples of the Dead Sea. “If there are any letters for you, or monsieur, where shall we forward them, miladi?” asked the obsequious manager, as he bowed her to the carriage. “You had better take care of them for the present,” she replied. “Colonel Dacre will probably be passing through Paris in a few days, and will call for them. If he changes his plans, I will send you my address.” We may be sure her heart was very full as she passed through the brilliant streets, where but two days ago she had walked proudly on her husband’s arm, happy in his love, and unconscious of a single care. But Phœbe was opposite her, and she was obliged to assume an indifferent air. She even pointed out a few objects of interest to the girl, and bore her martyrdom so finely that the other never once suspected the real state of the case. Phœbe tried hard to persuade her mistress to rest a little while at Dover, for her worn, wan look made the faithful creature anxious; but Lady Gwendolyn shook her head. “She would have plenty of time for rest later,” she said, with a wistful, far-away look, as if the rest she longed for was not of this world.