“If I could believe that she cared for me,” he said, “it would be different. Once or twice I have been mad enough to think so, but only for a moment; cool reflection, and Alice’s subsequent treatment, effectually dispelled my illusions on that score. She never would have left me all those years without one line; she never would have given me such a freezing reception, not one word of welcome for the present or regret for the past. Reginald Fairfax,” he added aloud, as he rose and began to pull off his tunic, “listen to common sense, keep out of your wife’s way, for you are a greater fool than I thought you; keep aloof from her altogether, if you would wish to say when you leave this roof for ever, all is lost save _honour_. If she had had anything to say to you, it would have been said long ago. Sitting up all night won’t mend matters. Sitting up all night won’t make her ask you to forgive and forget; she will never give in. And,” after a pause and glancing at himself sternly in the glass, “if I know _you_, you’ll never give in either.” Having garrisoned his mind with this reflection, he followed the example of the household, and went to bed. CHAPTER VII. THE LOST WEDDING-RING. The morning after the ball, neither Mary nor Alice appeared at breakfast, nor did they descend till nearly luncheon-time. Helen Mayhew’s portly figure was filling up a goodly portion of the open window, as she looked out on the terrace at Reginald playing with Maurice. “Come here, Alice,” she said, as Alice languidly entered the room. “Is it not a pretty sight to see Reginald with his little boy?” Alice approached and looked over her shoulder, and saw her husband leaning against the balustrade and making a small boat for Maurice, who, perched up beside him on the broad parapet, was watching his proceedings with the most lively interest, occasionally making suggestions and talking ceaselessly; the most thorough understanding between the pair was evident. Both faces were equally intent on the work in hand, and the resemblance between them was more striking than ever. Suddenly Reginald glanced up and saw Helen; lifting Maurice in his arms, he came closer to the window. “Look at my boat,” cried Maurice, waving it towards her; “it’s going to be painted blue, and I’m to sail it this evening--he is going to show me;” ruffling up his father’s short locks with small tanned fingers. Reginald set him down, and glanced from him to Helen with a smile of unbounded pride, but catching sight of Alice the smile died away, and nodding her a cool good-morning, he turned away and led Maurice up the steps into the house. “Why does he treat me so?” whispered Alice indignantly. “He never speaks of the child to me, and scarcely notices him when I am present, although he is my child--I am his mother; he spends hours with Maurice alone, and Maurice adores him. What does he mean? Is he afraid I would be jealous?”