These were his thoughts as he wandered from place to place, trying to convince himself that he had reached a point of renunciation; but as often as her face rose up before him he wavered in his resolution, and went back to the conviction that she really did not love the man who was only technically her husband. Might not her treatment of himself be capable of a more favourable interpretation than his first anger and chagrin had put upon it? He felt that it would depend upon her, when she returned, whether he could maintain a feigned indifference. He purchased a pipe for Cardington, and ultimately found himself in a large department store turning over the volumes on the book counter in search of a gift for his father. Presently he heard a voice at his elbow. "Are you engaged in Christmas shopping too, Mr. Leigh?" He turned and saw Mrs. Parr looking at him tentatively, her hands full of bundles. A remembrance of his rudeness to her at Littleford's caused him to welcome this opportunity to make amends. She was Felicity's nearest friend, and perhaps she would mention her name. Moreover, the fact that Emmet suspected her of having divined his secret, and her meeting with him and Lena at the inn, gave her a new interest in his eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Parr," he returned. "I'm doing as well as a mere man can be expected to do, which is n't very well. Perhaps you can come to my assistance." She placed her bundles on the counter with alacrity, and her thin, gloved hand hovered over the rows of volumes. "You must give me some hint as to the destination of the gift," she declared, turning upon him with a sparrow-like motion of the head and a significant smile. "No," he said, laughing at her intimation, "it isn't what you suspect. I want a book for an old-fashioned gentleman, past middle life. There seems to be nothing here but the latest novels." "As to that," she responded, "the bishop reads everything, from the Talmud to a Nick Carter detective story." "Neither of the classics you mention will fit the present case, however." "I know!" she cried. "'The Bible in Spain.' You need n't look dubious; it is n't a Sunday-school book, as you might think from the title. You may be sure that Felicity Wycliffe would n't like insipid literature, and this is one of her favourite books." Leigh's dubious look had not been due to ignorance of the book, but to a doubt as to whether his father possessed it. On reflection, he thought the choice a safe one, and his reply left his adviser undisturbed in her conviction that she was admitting him into the select circle of Borrovians. "The recommendation goes," he said. "Not," he corrected himself, "that I would not have purchased it upon yours alone, Mrs. Parr."