He did not know what to say. He was a dealer in gossip, and would have given much to hear the full details of this separation, especially now when he was on the verge of half-a-dozen country houses; but at the same time he did not want to worry the man whom he was sorry for, by betraying his partial knowledge of the facts. He had made a great deal of Nancy in Paris, betraying her peculiarities, her ignorance to many admiring listeners, and he would have liked a second chapter, which probably would have amused society still more. But he did not want to affront Arthur or wound his feelings. What could he say? ought he to make believe that he had never heard anything? or delicately that there was a something, a mist of report, which he knew? “Perfectly,” said Arthur, with cold self-restraint. “I am going to her now. Her mother, to whom she was much attached, is lately dead.” “Oh, really!” said Denham; and he watched the young man’s face with keen scrutiny. Fortunately, he himself was not going by the train which went to Underhayes. He accompanied Arthur to the door of his carriage, and stood there talking. “My _hommages_ to Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I daresay she has forgotten me; but lay me at her feet, Curtis, all the same. One does not easily forget a face like hers; you won’t mind me saying so much?” “Oh no--surely not;” said Arthur, smiling. He put himself into a corner of the train, glad to escape the other’s eyes. No, there were not many such faces as hers. Then, all suddenly, her aspect as she sat in the little Victoria in the Bois, that cold bright winter day, came up before him, he could not tell how; how bright she had looked! no wonder that Denham said one did not easily forget such a face. Her husband had been trying to forget it for two years, and now, the moment he had suspended that effort, how it came back! And where was she, where was he to find her? How slowly the train seemed to go! Might she be visible perhaps somewhere on one of the crowded railway platforms which they passed, where Denham had seen her? He gazed out anxiously whenever they stopped. Why should it be Denham, Denham! who cared nothing about her, that had seen her, and not Arthur, to whom such a meeting would have been new life? This was what was called providential; but what strange mistakes--mistakes that the poorest clerk in an office would be discharged if he made--were set down to Providence. If _he_ had but met her, and not Denham, what trouble might have been spared!