She had been afraid for a long time. Even before she came to Old Chester she was a little afraid, but in Old Chester the fear was intensified by the consciousness of having made a mistake in coming. Old Chester was so far away. It had seemed desirable when she first thought of it; it was so near Mercer where business very often called him. Besides, New York, with its throngs of people, where she had lived for several years, had grown intolerable; in Old Chester she and Lloyd had agreed she would have so much more privacy. But how differently things had turned out! He did not have to come to Mercer nearly so often as he had expected. Those visions of hers--which he had not discouraged--of weekly or certainly fortnightly visits, had faded into lengthening periods of three weeks, four weeks--the last one was more than six weeks ago. "He can't leave his Alice!" she said angrily to herself; "_I_ remember the time when he did not mind leaving her." As for privacy, the great city, with its hurrying indifferent crowds, was more private than this village of insistent friendliness. She leaned back in her chair and pressed her hands over her eyes; then sat up quickly--she must not cry! Lloyd hated red eyes. But oh, she was afraid!--afraid of what? She had no answer; as yet her fear was without a name. She picked up her book, hurriedly; "I'll read," she said to herself; "I won't think!" But for a long time she did not turn a page. However, by the time Mr. Pryor came back from the tea-party she was outwardly tranquil, and looked up from her novel to welcome him and laugh at his stories of his hostess. But he was instant to detect the troubled background of her thoughts. "You are lonely," he said, lounging on the sofa beside her; "when that little boy comes you'll have something to amuse you;" he put a caressing finger under her soft chin. "I didn't have that little boy, but I had another," she said ruefully. "Did your admirer call?" She nodded. "What!" he exclaimed, for her manner told him. "He tried to be silly," she said. "Of course I snubbed him. But it makes me horribly uncomfortable somehow." Lloyd Pryor got up and slowly scratched a match under the mantel-piece; he took a long time to light his cigar. Then he put his hands in his pockets, and standing with his back to the fire regarded his boots. Helena was staring straight ahead of her with melancholy eyes.--("Do you ever have the feeling," the boy had said, "that nothing is worth while?") Lloyd Pryor looked at her furtively and coughed. "I suppose," he said--and knocked the ashes from his cigar with elaborate care--"I suppose your adorer is a good deal younger than you?" She lifted her head sharply, "Well, yes;--what of it?" "Oh, nothing; nothing at all. In the first place, the health of our friend, Frederick, is excellent. But if this fellow were not younger; and if apoplexy or judgment should--well; why, perhaps--" "Perhaps what?"