She smiled proudly as she thought of Conrad’s old prediction fulfilling itself so exactly now. Once she would have felt this deed of his as a crushing blow, aimed at the very foundation of her love and happiness; now she only saw in it a new proof of her husband’s single-minded love and strength. He would do even that which he knew would cause present pain, if he felt assured it were best to do so. He had proved his strength like this before, and she knew that he had been in the right. Should she distrust him now? Never again! never again! She had done with distrust now. She loved him too truly to feel a shadow of doubt. Whatever he did must be true and right. She would find him now, and thank him for his goodness towards her boy. She went straight to the study, full of this idea. Her eyes were shining strangely; her face showed that her feelings had been deeply stirred. But when she opened the door, she paused with a start expressive of slight discomfiture, for her husband was not alone—Tom Pendrill was with him. They had guide-books and a Continental Bradshaw open before them, and were deep in discussions and plans. They looked up quickly as Monica appeared, and Randolph, seeing by her face that she knew all, nerved himself to meet displeasure and misunderstanding. Monica could not say now what she had rehearsed on the way. Tom was there, and she was not sure that she quite forgave him, although she believed he acted from motives of kindness; but certainly she could not speak out before him. The words she had come prepared to utter died away on her lips, and her silence and whole attitude looked significant of deep-lying distress and displeasure. “You have heard the news, Monica?” said Tom, easily. “Yes, I have heard the news,” she answered, very quietly. “Is it true that you take him away the day after to-morrow?” “Quite true,” answered Tom, looking very steadily at her. “Do you forgive us, Monica?” She was silent for a moment; sort of quiver passed over her face. “I am not quite sure if I forgive _you_,” she answered in a low even tone. She had not looked at her husband all this time, nor attempted to speak to him. She was labouring visibly under the stress of subdued emotion. Randolph believed he knew only too well the struggle that was going on within her. “Monica,” he said—and his voice sounded almost cold in his effort to keep it thoroughly under control—“I am afraid this has been a shock to you. I am sure you will feel it very much. Will you try to believe that we are acting as we believe for the best as regards Arthur’s future, and pardon the mystery that has surrounded our proceedings?” Monica gave him one quick look—so quick and transient that he could not catch the secret it revealed. She spoke very quietly.