In the last weeks she had grown so regardless of the town's opinion that she did not care how many people saw her pass Morris' door. She had, perhaps, been always regardless, only in the dull security of her life there had been no need to regard them. She despised them all; she had always despised them, for the deference and admiration that they paid her husband if for no other reason. Despised them too, it might be, because they had not seen more in herself, had thought her the dull, lifeless nonentity in whose soul no fires had ever burned. She had never chattered nor gossiped with them, did not consider gossip a factor in any one's day; she had never had the least curiosity about any one else, whether about life or character or motive. There is no egoist in the world so complete as the disappointed woman without imagination. She hurried through the town as though she were on a business of the utmost urgency; she saw nothing and she heard nothing. She did not even see Miss Milton sitting at her half-opened window enjoying the evening air. Morris himself opened the door. He was surprised when he saw her; when he had closed the door and helped her off with her coat he said as they walked into the drawing-room: "Is there anything the matter?" She saw at once that the room was cheerless and deserted. "Is Miss Burnett here?" she asked. "No. She went off to Rafiel for a week's holiday. I'm being looked after by the cook." "It's cold." She drew her shoulders and arms together, shivering. "Yes. It _is_ cold. It's these showers. Shall I light the fire?" "Yes, do." He bent down, putting a match to the paper; then when the fire blazed he pushed the sofa forwards. "Now sit down and tell me what's the matter." She could see that he was extremely nervous. "Have you heard nothing?" "No." She laughed bitterly. "I thought all the town knew by this time." "Knew what?" "Falk has run away to London with the daughter of Samuel Hogg." "Samuel Hogg?" "Yes, the man of the 'Dog and Pilchard' down in Seatown." "Run away with her?" "Yesterday. He sent us a letter saying that he had gone up to London to earn his own living, had taken this girl with him, and would marry her next week." Morris was horrified. "Without a word of warning? Without speaking to you? Horrible! The daughter of that man.... I know something about him...the worst man in the place." Then followed a long silence. The effect on Morris was as it had been on Mrs. Brandon--the actual deed was almost lost sight of in the sudden light that it threw on his passion. From the very first the most appealing element of her attraction to him had been her loneliness, the neglect from which she suffered, the need she had of comfort.