And yet her father clung to her as tenaciously, as if he were a child, and could scarcely endure her out of his sight. Circumstances put tremendous pressure upon her, circumstances in the shape of doctors, her father, and her fears; and she allowed herself, as usual, to drift. It was quite settled that she was to go to Nice--in fact, there had never been any question of her remaining behind--and to stay there until May. She had no alternative in the character of Miss West, go she must; but in her character of Mrs. Wynne, how was she to act? What about her husband and son? She dared not again venture a visit to the Temple, so she wrote a very loving pleading little letter, putting everything before Laurence in the best and strongest light, as seen from her own point of view, and imploring him to be patient just a little longer, until her father was well enough to hear the shock--and to live without her. To this letter she received no reply for ten days. Then Mr. Jessop called; he was an occasional visitor at Belgrave Square. He felt a certain cynical pleasure in watching both “hands” in this curious game. It was ten times more interesting than the best novel going, or even the latest society play, so he told himself. To see little--no, she was not little, but young--Mrs. Wynne once, and to see her as she was now, was indeed a most startling contrast. To see Laurence working away like a horse in a mill, was another fine sight. And to behold a couple, once so devoted, so absolutely indifferent to one another, so totally divided by that great gulf, wealth, was the strangest spectacle of all! Mr. Jessop occasionally dropped in on a Sunday afternoon, and paid his respects to Miss West and her father. A short time before their departure for the sunny South, he called to take leave and wish them “bon voyage.” It was one gloomy January afternoon. Mr. West was not visible, but Miss West received him and various other visitors in a snug, warm little drawing-room, one of a suite where she dispensed small talk, smiles, and afternoon tea. Mr. Jessop sat out all the other visitors with imperturbable resolution, and when the last had risen and departed, he brought his chair nearer to the fire, unasked, crossed his long legs, stuck his glass in his eye, and, after a momentary pause, said-- “And how does Laurence look upon this little expedition of yours?” “He has not answered my letter; but, you know, silence gives consent,” was the smiling response. “Are you surprised?” and she awaited his verdict with smiling, upraised eyes. “Well, frankly, I am.” “You, under similar circumstances, would not be so complacent.” “No; I should probably be up before the ‘beak’ for wife-beating.” “Mr. Jessop!” “Mrs. Wynne!” “Hu-s-sh!” with a quick gesture of dismay.