"Mother--I forgot!--I'm so sorry--I dare say it was nothing. But I think a letter came for Arthur just before twelve--a letter he was expecting. At least I saw a messenger-boy come down the avenue. Arthur ran out to meet him. Then I went up-stairs, and I haven't seen him since." Lady Coryston had turned whiter than before. She groped for a chair near and seated herself, before she recovered sufficient self-possession to question her daughter as to the precise moment of the messenger's appearance, the direction from which he arrived, and so forth. But Marcia knew no more, and could tell no more. Nor could she summon up any curiosity about her brother, possessed and absorbed as her mind was by other thoughts and images. But in a vague, anxious way she felt for her mother; and if Lady Coryston had spoken Marcia would have responded. And Lady Coryston would have liked to speak, first of all to scold Marcia for forgetting her message, and then to confide in her--insignificant as the daughter's part in the mother's real life and thoughts had always been. But she felt physically incapable of bearing the emotion which might spring out upon her from such a conversation. It was as though she possessed--and knew she possessed--a certain measured strength; just enough--and no more--to enable her to go through a conversation which _must_ be faced. She had better not waste it beforehand. Sometimes it occurred to her that her feeling toward this coming interview was wholly morbid and unnatural. How many worse things had she faced in her time! But reasoning on it did not help her--only silence and endurance. After resting a little in the drawing-room she went up to her sitting-room again, refusing Marcia's company. "Won't you let me come and make you comfortable?--if you're going to rest, you'll want a shawl and some pillows," said the girl, as she stood at the foot of the staircase, wistfully looking after her. But Lady Coryston shook her head. "Thank you--I don't want anything." * * * * * So--for Marcia--there was nothing to be done with these weary hours--but wait and think and weep! She went back to her own sitting-room, and lingeringly put Newbury's letters together, in a packet, which she sealed; in case--well, in case--nothing came of her letter of the morning. They had been engaged not quite a month. Although they had met almost every day, yet there were many letters from him; letters of which she felt anew the power and beauty as she reread them. Yet from that power and beauty, the natural expression of his character, she stood further off now than when she had first known him. The mystery indeed in which her nascent love had wrapped him had dropped away. She knew him better, she respected him infinitely; and all the time--strangely, inexplicably--love had been, not growing, but withering.