His mood was one not only of depression, but of anxiety. He hardly realised how much he had built upon Virginia's cheering accounts of her own restored health, until he received his mother-in-law's feline epistle, telling him of a severe chill and consequent fever. The wording was careful, even clever, but she had conveyed with full force the impression that she meant to convey, which was that the fever and delirium were more the result of distress of mind than of the actual chill--that the prospect of returning to her loveless marriage and gloomy home were working untold harm to the patient, and hindering recovery. Since the receipt of this most disquieting letter, no word from Worthing had reached him. Morning after morning the empty postbag mocked him. To-day he was making up his mind that if he held to his resolution, and remained silent--if he adhered to his foolhardy determination to prove his wife to the uttermost--he would lose her altogether. He still told himself that she would do her duty at all costs. He was, however, beginning to perceive that the strength of influence now being brought to bear might succeed in persuading her that to return to him was _not_ her duty. After all--in view of what he had made her bear--could he say that he thought it was her duty? Mrs. Mynors spoke as though the illness were serious. He knew she was a liar; he knew she wished to hurt him. Yet, after all, it might be true. He had dwelt such a blow at Virgie's tenderest feelings as might well shock a sensitive girl into real illness. Neither had he done anything, since they parted, to allay her fears. He had not so much as suggested the change of heart which awaited her. As the date of her return drew near--as she contemplated the renewal of her martyrdom--her flesh might well shrink from the demand made upon it by the dauntless spirit. Violently though he struggled against indulging hope, it had all the same risen insurgent when he got Virginia's letter fixing Saturday as the date of her return. He had lain sleepless most of Friday night, planning what he could do, or say, when they met at the railway station; living over again his drive at her side, through the summer dusk, on the night of her departure when she had been, in her absorption, hardly conscious of his presence. He wondered whether he could break through the tongue-tied gloom which held him like an evil spell, and let her see something--not too much at first--of what he felt. His mortification when he received his mother-in-law's wounding letter had been proportionately great. The intensity of his feeling surprised and half frightened him. Since that dark moment--silence.