She leant her hot forehead against the frame of the open window and gave way to a feeling of utter and undivided joy--joy that he was home, alive, and well, and under the very same roof as herself--at least within earshot. She paused as she heard Mary’s gay musical laugh. They were all walking about the grounds; she could see them. He was standing on the gravel path, telling them something very amusing evidently, for as he concluded Miss Saville and Miss Ferrars both laughed immoderately. With this laugh came a revulsion of feeling. “_He_ could joke; he could be exceedingly entertaining. This meeting was nothing to him. He had not shown the smallest signs of emotion or agitation. He had merely come to see if she was sufficiently meek and humble to be reinstated in his good graces. No, she was _not_,” she said to herself, as she thought over the utter neglect with which he had treated her for the last three years. “He thinks he has only to extend the top of his sceptre and I shall be only too thankful to approach. But he is mistaken; I shall be ‘_Vashti_’ to the end of the chapter. I shall never humble myself again. Pleased as he is with Maurice now, he has never taken any direct notice of him all these years.” Alice dressed rapidly, hardening her heart with bitter recollections at every moment. Just as she had completed her toilette, and was arranging some flowers in her dress, the door opened and Mary hurried in. “Oh you sly girl!” she exclaimed; “dressed already? I thought you were doing something of this kind to ensure a nice long _tête-à-tête_ with _him_. Oh Alice!” she cried, taking her in her arms and kissing her warmly, “what a happy young woman you are! How very, very glad I am for your sake! Why did you never tell me your husband was so perfectly charming--so handsome, so distinguished-looking? How proud you must be of him, my dear!” holding Alice at arm’s length and looking at her with eager interrogation. Alice, whose hair and costume were slightly disordered by her friend’s enthusiastic hugging, drew back rather flushed and out of countenance. “Mary,” she said, averting her face as she rearranged the roses in her dress, “you are very good, and mean very kindly, but”--and she paused--“but I must tell you something I never meant to tell you. Reginald and I do not get on very well together. We--we--do not suit; but do not take any notice, _please_,” she entreated as she looked at her friend appealingly. “You will soon see”--and she stopped; then continued: “Reginald is my guardian, you know; and he and I thought the best thing to do was to marry. But he is far more devoted to his profession than to me. His sword is his real wife, and I--I--get on very well alone, as you have seen, and will see.” “What shall I see?” asked Mary. “I see that you are the handsomest couple I have ever come across, and I have no doubt you are equally well matched in other respects.”