He thought she had a troubled look that day. It seemed to him that it cost her an effort to keep her attention upon any subject, and she lapsed into silence every now and then, looking dreamily out of the window to the thatched roofs and ploughed fields in the distance. “I’m afraid you have something on your mind,” he said. “What nonsense! What put such an idea into your head?” “You are so thoughtful, and so much more silent than usual.” “There is so little to talk about in a sick room. If I were to tell you about our doings at Medlow I should only bore you.” “Not at all. I should be very pleased to hear how you amuse yourself. Is Major Swanwick still there?” “Yes; he is still there.” He saw that her cheeks crimsoned as she answered his question, and he wondered whether she really had any _penchant_ for the Major, or whether she suspected his jealous apprehensions upon that subject. She got up to go before he could question her further. “I shall be late for luncheon,” she said, “and Lady B. hates any of us to be absent!” “I thought there was no such thing as punctuality at Medlow.” “Oh, we are pretty punctual at luncheon. It’s the hungry hour, and we are all ravenous. Good-bye.” “_Au revoir._ You will come to-morrow, love; and come earlier, I hope.” “_Pas possible._ I shall be out with the hounds.” “Another blank day for me. But don’t disappoint me in the evening, whatever the weather may be.” She was gone, leaving him doubtful of her fidelity, though far from suspecting the extent of her falsehood. He endured the long, dull day as best he might, and improved his mind by skimming all the books which Lady Burdenshaw had sent him, which were really the cream of Mudie’s last supply—travels, memoirs, gossip, magazines—books chosen with a view to the masculine mind, which was supposed to be indifferent to fiction. Evening came at last. His lamp was lighted, his fire swept and garnished. The hunting party would be jogging homeward in the wintry darkness, he thought. There were three hours to wait before half-past nine, which was the earliest time at which he could expect his beloved. It was a little after the half-hour, when his heart began to beat faster at the sound of carriage wheels. This time she was not going to disappoint him. He listened for her step upon the stair—the firm, quick tread he knew so well; but it was another step which he heard, a slower and heavier tread, with much rustling of silken draperies. It must be Lady Burdenshaw come to chaperon her. It was Lady Burdenshaw, but alone. She came in and drew near his sofa with a serious countenance. “Great God!” he cried, starting up from his reclining position; “is anything the matter? An accident in the hunting field! Is she hurt?” “No, my poor fellow. _She’s_ not hurt. It would take a great deal to hurt her. She’s too hard. But she has done her best to hurt you.” “What do you mean?” “She has gone off with that audacious scamp.” “Major Swanwick?”