The forgiveness of Frank Wildacre was a demand too exorbitant to be met by a man who was suffering as I was suffering. I could never forgive him--never: especially now that Fay was dead. And suddenly, through the clouds of my spiritual anguish and across the storms of my passionate rebellion, I seemed to hear a Voice which said: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock!" But I would not heed it. I pushed my untasted breakfast away from me and rang the bell. Jeavons answered it, and I heard myself saying to him in a voice that I did not recognise as my own-- "Let all the blinds be pulled down at once. Her ladyship is dead." Then--before he could utter the commonplace condolences which I felt would kill me--I went along the passage to the library and shut the door: and I sat down at my writing-table and laid my head on my arms and wept like a child. And there was none to comfort me. Everybody was very kind to me for the next few days, with that combination of fear and pity which we always show towards the newly bereaved, and which sets these apart from their fellows as completely as if they were lepers. Arthur and Annabel came over at once from the Deanery, and vainly endeavoured to console me in their different ways: Annabel by letting me see what a sacrifice she had made on my behalf by leaving Lowchester, even for a day, with all the work--Red Cross and otherwise--which the war had thrown on her hands: and Arthur by saying hardly anything at all, but gazing at me with the eyes of a faithful dog. And all the time that still small Voice kept sounding in my ears: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock!" I showed Arthur and Annabel Isabel's letter, and awaited their comments upon it. Annabel was very indignant with Lady Chayford. "It is just like Isabel to begin bothering you about Frank at a time like this!" she exclaimed: "but she never did have any sense. As if you hadn't trouble enough, poor dear boy, without her trying to thrust Belgian refugees on to your shoulders as well!" "I could not possibly have Frank here," I said. "Of course you couldn't," replied my sister: "it would be most upsetting to you, with his likeness to Fay, and the way in which he has treated you, and all! I cannot conceive what induced Isabel Chayford to make such an improper suggestion. But she always was utterly inconsiderate of other people's feelings." My sense of justice rebelled at this. "I don't think you are quite fair to her there, Annabel. Isabel may be unwise, but she is never inconsiderate." "Well, at any rate, she used to be," retorted Annabel; "and what people used to be they generally are." I could not deny the truth of this statement, broadly speaking: and I had not the spirit to point out that there might be exceptions. "What do you think?" I asked, appealing to Arthur.