"Esther!--Esther!" he calls after her: but the "drip, drip" of the great swollen rain-drops from the eaves of the deer-barn is his only answer. CHAPTER XLI. The rain ceases, and St. John endeavours to work off his disappointment and rage in a very long walk. When he at length re-enters the house, the two old people are hobbling into luncheon, and Miss Blessington sweeping, slowly and alone, after them. Her face is serene, and, to his surprise, wears no bellicose expression towards himself. To tell the truth, during three hours of point-lace work, the Gerard diamonds have kept flashing and gleaming, restless-bright, before her mind's eye. She has been telling herself that she was over-hasty in the relinquishment of them--has been resolving to make one effort, if consistent with dignity, for their recapture. "Does Miss Craven know that luncheon is ready?" asks St. John of the butler, when they have all been seated for some minutes. "If you please, sir, I don't think that Miss Craven is coming to lunch." "Why not?--is she ill?" he inquires, anxiously, perfectly indifferent as to whether his anxiety is remarked or no. "I believe she is rather poorly, sir." Luncheon over, the old people are convoyed back to their arm-chairs. Gerard stands with his back to the hall-fire, with the _Times_ in his hand. Constance, under some pretext of looking over the day's papers, lingers near him. "I have been telling my aunt about our alarm last night, St. John," she says, as sweetly as usual. "Indeed!" "And its tame prosaic _dénouement_." "Indeed!" "I am afraid I was unreasonably angry with you for what was evidently a mere accident; but when one is nervous and frightened, one really does not know what one says. I'm sure I have the vaguest recollection of what I said." "I remember distinctly what you said, Constance." "Indeed!" (with a smooth low laugh). "You don't bear malice, I hope? Things are much as they were before, I suppose?" He lays down his paper, and looks at her steadily with his clear grey eyes. "Things are between us as they have been all our lives up to last October; as they have been since then, they will never be again." She turns away quickly, to hide the mortification which even the cold pure mask of her face cannot wholly conceal. "That is what I meant," she answers, quietly--with great presence of mind endeavouring to prevent her defeat from being converted into a rout; and though she deceives neither herself nor him, the effort to do both is at least laudable.