He considered for a moment. "I don't think I am good at describing people," he answered, in quite an ordinary tone. "I imagine her"--she began and stopped, as though she were trying to keep back just the ghost of a mocking tone that would come into her voice--"a dear, good, useful creature, a clever, managing woman, who looks after everything and makes you thoroughly comfortable." "I believe I am pretty comfortable," he answered, thoughtfully. "Oh! And do you help with the farm?" she asked, with a possibility of contempt--it depended on his answer. "No, I fear I don't do that. I leave it to her and to Hannah. Hannah is her daughter by her first husband." "I dare say he was very different from you," and her lip curled. "I don't know whether he was or not--I never saw him." His manner was beginning to be impatient again. "Tell me one thing more," she said, after a moment's hesitation; "do you love her very much?" He looked at her almost resentfully. "I fail to see your right to ask that question," he said; "but, since you have done so, I will certainly tell you that I care for her more than I do for any other woman in the world." "Gerald!" she cried, and burst into tears again; "I feel that you have never forgiven me--that you will always despise me." "This is nonsense," he said; "and I don't understand what you are driving at. We broke off with each other years ago. You married another man, and presumably you were very happy with him. I married another woman, and am very happy with her, and there is nothing more to be said." She got up and stood with her back to the dull, smouldering fire; it had been allowed to get low, for the day had been like a summer one. "Just like you men," she exclaimed, with a little laugh and a sudden change of manner. "You are curious creatures; sometimes I wonder if you are anything more than superior animals. Shake hands, old boy, and let us be friends. We are middle-aged people, both of us. Look at my gray hair." She bent her head almost gayly, and put her finger along a narrow line--"Rather too late for sentiment, isn't it?" "Yes, I think it is," he was surprised, but distinctly relieved. "Now perhaps you'll tell me when it was that Cyril wrote to you?" "About two months ago. Poor old chap, his marriage wasn't up to much--ei--ther." She checked the last word and finished it with a gasp. "Awful pity, you know, to marry a woman from a music-hall. Lucky they haven't any children, isn't it?" "Perhaps it is, on the whole." "I don't like the account of his health; it sounds as if he is in a bad way." "I'm afraid he is," Mr. Vincent assented, reluctantly; and then he added, slowly, for he always disliked making any statement concerning himself. "I shall probably go out to him." "I knew you would," she cried, with a little glow of approval. But he was unresponsive to this, too. "Of course, if anything happened, the title would come to you?"