Anice before long brought a summons to afternoon tea, and Fulvia, refused to go. "I want to wait for Nigel here. I am tired," she said. "Somebody can bring me a cup, or I can go without. I don't want to be bothered." The maid brought a cup, since Daisy would not. The laziness of the latter was unaccountable in the eyes of Mrs. Browning and Anice, for Daisy did not usually shirk trouble, like indolent Anice. But she offered no explanation, only she would not go. Fulvia stayed on in the study alone, leaning back in Nigel's easy-chair, with his open book beside her, the picture of mingled misery and self-condemnation. From a quarter to five till a quarter to seven she waited, the longest two hours that Fulvia had ever known. Nobody came near her for a while. Then Mrs. Browning appeared, and wanted to know what was wrong. Fulvia evaded her inquiries with a forced smile; she could see that Mrs. Browning knew nothing of the postscript. But Daisy—why did not Daisy appear, as on any other occasion Daisy's resolute avoidance of Fulvia spoke palpably. The front door opened at length, and Nigel came in. His hair was wet and plastered, his coat damp; even a greatcoat had not served to shelter him from the driving rain. For a moment he did not see Fulvia; then their eyes met. Fulvia knew at once that he knew, and he saw that she was aware of what he knew. She hold out both hands, and said, "Nigel! Speak!" "I did not expect you to be home so soon." "No—I—could not bear it. I wanted to come back—to you. Nigel, say something!" "What do you wish me to say?" "Will you forgive? I see that you have heard. Daisy has found the paper. It was cowardice. I never thought at first—but—and after—how could I speak?" Nigel placed the little sheet in her hand. "It is yours, not mine," she said. "Daisy told me so. I have not read it. Daisy had no business to make the discovery. But since she did—" Fulvia gave the half-sheet to him, not lifting her eyes. She knew then that he was reading; and presently she heard him tear it across. "Will you forgive?" she whispered once more. "Yes, of course." "You mean—I don't understand." "I mean that there is nothing for it but to take things in that way," he said gravely, after slight hesitation. "I could not have thought it quite possible of you; but—" "But you will not feel differently about me. You will trust—still. Say you will forget—you will trust me still." "That must depend. I will not speak of it. One can hardly promise to forget. It is not feeling angry; don't misunderstand. But this sort of thing gives rather a shake to one's confidence. How am I to know in the future—?" "Nigel! Think what a lesson to me it has been!" "Yes, I hope so." "But—" She sobbed aloud, with the longing for something more. "Oh, say one kind word!"