She saw him as little as possible, she supposed that in time she would not care, would be indifferent to him; she hoped so. Meanwhile she went out when he came in; saw his kind distress because he thought that she was not well, and shuddered at it. Then Lady Adela told her that Rachel had asked whether she were free for Christmas. She received a letter: "DEAR MISS RAND, I wonder whether by any chance you would care to come to us here for three weeks at Christmas time? I should be so grateful if you would come and help me a little with some tiresome social things here. May I add that I have for a long time wanted to know you better than the London rush ever gives time for? My aunt says that you have been overworking lately, she thinks. If you come here you shall have all the rest and quiet possible. Yours sincerely, RACHEL SEDDON." A funny little letter--stiff and then suddenly impulsive and friendly. Of course she would go--she had never doubted that. Here at last was some food for the burning restlessness that was always at her breast--Through these months she had longed for some step that would help to kill the pain. Now she would watch Rachel and discover her heart and perhaps find from that discovery some way for her own release. For her shame, night and day, was that she still cared, cared, yes, as deeply as she had ever done--that caring must die. Perhaps the sight and knowledge of this other woman would kill it. At least here at last was action after the terrible silence and remoteness of those many months. She would go to Seddon and she would not leave it without finding some way by which she might still make some use of life. II She had really stayed at very few houses before. The anticipation at any other time would have excited her, now nothing mattered except that she would meet Rachel. Her mother and sister had watched her during these past months with a dismay stirred by the sudden absence of her genial friendliness. They had taken so much of her kindliness for granted and now when she refused them the sympathy that they had always demanded for a thousand unimportant incidents they, clamorously, missed it. At first it was easy to say that Lizzie was callous and selfish, afterwards that she was ill and overworked, finally they hailed with relief the promise of a three-weeks' holiday. "She'll come back," said Mrs. Rand, "as fresh as paint, and taken out of herself." Meanwhile no solution of Lizzie's trouble occurred to them; that she should ever feel the tyranny of love, like more sentimental mortals, was, at this time of day, impossible. "We know Lizzie, thank you," said Mrs. Rand.