“Well, _qui vivra verra_,” replied Alice, as she opened the door and disappeared, anxious to avoid her friend’s inquiries. Reginald, having hurried his toilette, hastened down to the drawing-room in the hopes of seeing Alice for at least a few minutes alone. Her greeting had been cold and constrained; but she was taken by surprise. She was agitated, and his lovely shy Alice was the last to offer or accept caresses in public. It would be different when they met alone. He stood for some time in the deep window, looking out into the park. How still and green and cool it all looked after the bustle and heat and glare in India! “There was no place like home after all,” he thought as his eyes roved over the undulating sward and the clumps of splendid timber, and he watched the rooks soaring nestwards and heard the corncrake’s discordant yet familiar “Craik-craik.” The door, which was ajar, was at this instant pushed open, and with a swish of long trailing skirts Alice advanced into the room. At first she seemed to hesitate, but on second thoughts approached the window. “What a lovely evening it is, is it not?” she remarked, unfurling an enormous black fan with a grace all her own. “Lovely indeed!” replied her husband, turning his back to the landscape and scanning her critically. After a pause of thirty seconds (employed by his wife in steeling herself with recollections of the past), “Alice,” he asked with a gesture of appeal, “have you _nothing_ to say to me?” “To say to you?” she repeated, with raised brows and an air of most perfect indifference. “No, nothing particular; unless that I am afraid you had a very warm journey here to-day. Early in the afternoon it was absolutely broiling.” “Well, yes, it _was_ warm--a good deal warmer than the welcome you gave me. But you can make up for that _now_,” coming closer. “Alice, are you not going to say you are glad to see me?” “Yes, I am very glad to see you,” retreating two steps and making a shield of her fan. “And is that all?” “I think so--what more do you expect? You are nothing but my guardian,” she replied, avoiding his eyes. “_Indeed!_” with an imperceptible start. “Yes. You made the arrangement _yourself_; do not blame _me_ for holding you to it,” she answered hurriedly. “That arrangement, as you call it, was made under utterly different circumstances, when you did not, and would not, believe that I was your lawful husband. It is different now--you know better than that.” “It may suit you to change _your mind_, but I do not alter mine. You are my guardian, and nothing more; as husband and wife we are strangers.” “Is this your matured determination?” said Sir Reginald in a transport of indignation. “It is,” she replied firmly. “You have forgotten the existence of your wife for the last three years: continue to forget her. Do you think I have no pride?”