The subject ended there, but it left a sort of sore constraint in the minds of both. It was almost with a feeling of relief a few mornings later that Randolph opened a letter from the bailiff of his Scotch estate, requesting the presence of the master for a few days. The young man had been getting his shooting-box renovated and beautified for the reception of his young wife, hoping to prevail upon her in the autumn to come north with him, and his own presence on the spot had become a matter of necessity. Monica heard of his proposed absence with perfect quietness, which, however, hid a good deal of sinking at heart. She did not venture to ask to accompany him, nor did she suggest, as he had half feared, returning to Trevlyn. She assented quietly to the proposition, and gave no outward sign of dismay. Randolph sighed as he noted her indifference. Once she would have dreaded being left alone in the strange world of London, have begged him not to leave her, but now she was quite happy to see him depart. He was gradually growing sorrowfully convinced that his marriage had been a great mistake, and that Monica’s love would never be his. There had been sweet moments both before and after marriage, but they were few and far between, and the hope he had once so ardently cherished was growing fainter every day. However, life must go on in its accustomed groove, and the night before his departure was spent with Beatrice and her brother, who were giving a select dinner party. Randolph and Monica seldom spent an evening at home alone now. Beatrice Wentworth’s little parties were very popular. She was an excellent hostess, her endless sparkle and flow of spirit kept her guests well amused, and she treated her numerous admirers with a provoking friendliness and equality that was diverting to witness. Lord Haddon was a favourite, too, from his good-natured simplicity and frankness; and there was an easy unconstrained atmosphere about their house that made it a pleasant place of resort to its _habitués_. Monica had grown fond of Beatrice, in her quiet, undemonstrative fashion, and felt more at home in her house than in any other. Sometimes when those two were alone together Beatrice would lay aside that brilliant sparkle and flow of spirit, and lapse into a sudden gravity and seriousness that would have astonished many of her friends and acquaintances had they chanced to witness it. Sometimes Monica fancied at such moments that some kind of cloud rested upon the handsome, dashing girl, that her past held some tear-stained page, some sad or painful memory; and it was this conviction that had won Monica’s confidence and friendship more than anything else. She could not make a true friend of any one who had never known sorrow.