"My dear boy, I should think this is the best day's work you ever did in all your life!" cried the old countess, holding Virgie's hand most cordially. "And she is Bernard Mynors's daughter! Oh, yes, my dear, all the county knows who you were! All the county is talking about you! But nobody will be surprised at the miracle when they see you! As to him, he is the most savage, the most _farouche_ creature that ever was made--or was until he saw you--for you have altered him already, my dear! I knew him when he was a little mite in velvet suits, and I never thought he would turn out as he did! But you have come to the rescue just in time. Put ceremony on one side, and bring him to dine with us at the Chase just _en famille_ one day this week, won't you?" Gaunt was obliged to explain that his wife was a convalescent, and that any evening engagement was at present out of the question for her. He hoped that it would soon be different. Lady St. Aukmund showed herself pertinacious, and asked more questions than he liked, but he managed to parry them all, and she got into her motor at last, all compliments and desires for showing hospitality. He waited until the great folks were off, and then put Virgie into the carriage at once. As he arranged the dust rug carefully about her feet, Virginia was struck for the first time with a sort of compunction. Her husband, for whatever motive, was certainly carrying out the doctor's orders loyally. She was touched with shame that he must walk home, because she was occupying his carriage. Leaning forward impetuously, she said: "I hope you will drive home? I hope you will not walk because of--me?" "Thanks, I prefer it." He stepped back, gave the order, and she was driven away. He stood there in the road, his brows knit, his heart in tumult. What an ass he had been to decline that offer! He might have been seated by her now, conscious of her in every fibre, seeing her, even though not daring to look at her, breathing her, as it were, into his being. It could have done her no harm. He might have found time for some word, some faltering sentence that should have prepared her for his change of mind, for his entire defeat and penitence. He started to walk home, in the dust of her chariot wheels. He would set eyes upon her no more that day, unless he stood, as he often did, at the window of his study, whence he could see the canopy of her chair as she lay out upon the terrace. * * * * * He saw her no more, except from a distance, for another week. Then the doctor gave him cheering news. She was doing splendidly. He thought she might lead a normal life in a few days more, if she were carefully guarded, and not allowed to overdo herself. "You might take her to the coast?--Devon or Cornwall, perhaps?" he suggested. Gaunt said he would consider it. It was a difficult time for him to leave home, just as harvest was beginning. A month later perhaps.