Now and then she repeated to herself the formulæ on which she had been brought up, which she had always accepted, as to the unseriousness, the unreality of the romantic, the sentimental in life. Two or three days went by without any event to mark them. On the fourth, Bertie Lee-Harrison paid a call of interminable length, when Judith, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, talked to him with unusual animation. In her heart she was thinking: “Reuben will never come again, and what shall I do?” But the very next day Reuben came. It was of course impossible that he should stay away for any length of time. The Leunigers were at tea in the drawing-room after dinner when the door was pushed open, and he entered, as usual, unannounced. Judith’s heart leapt suddenly within her. The misery of the last few days melted like a bad dream. After all, were things any different from what they had always been? Here was Reuben, here was she, face to face--alive--together. He came slowly forwards, his eyelids drooping, an air of almost wooden immobility on his face. The black frock-coat which he wore, and in which he had that day attended Mr. Ronaldson’s funeral, brought out the unusual sallowness of his complexion. There was a withered, yellow look about him to-night which forcibly recalled his mother. Judith’s heart grew very soft as she watched him shaking hands with her aunt and uncle. “He is not well,” she thought; then: “He always comes last to me.” But even as this thought flitted across her mind Reuben was in front of her, holding out his hand. For a moment she stared astonished at the stiff, outstretched arm, the downcast, expressionless face, taking in the exaggerated, self-conscious indifference of his whole manner, then, with lightning quickness, put her hand in his. It was as though he had struck her. She looked round, half-expecting a general protest against this public insult, saw the quiet, unmoved faces, and understood. She, too, to outward appearance, was quiet and unmoved enough, as she sat there on a primrose-coloured ottoman, bending over a bit of work. But the blood was beating and surging in her ears, and her stiff, cold fingers blundered impotently with needle and thread. Reuben finished his greetings, then sat down near his uncle. He had come, he explained, to say “good-bye” before going down to St. Baldwin’s, for which, as he had expected, he had been asked to stand. There was every chance of his being returned, Mr. Leuniger believed? Well, yes. There was a small Radical party down there, certainly, beginning to feel its way, and they had brought forward a candidate. Otherwise there would have been no opposition. Sir Nicholas Kemys, who had a place down there, and who was member for the county of which St. Baldwin’s was the chief town, had been very kind about it all. Lady Kemys was Lee-Harrison’s sister. Judith listened, cold as a stone.