“It’s by your own wish,” said he rather drily, “that our relations are not closer than they are.” “Certainly. And how long is this arrangement to last? How long is it going to take my invalid reputation to get well again?” Sir Robert frowned uneasily. “Do you mean that you want to know when Jack can come here again?” “Yes. People will talk, you know. And instead of my intercourse with him being looked upon, as it always was, and as it rightly was, as perfectly innocent, people will put their heads together, and talk about what Sir Robert ‘found out.’” “We must risk something,” said Sir Robert shortly. “We risk as little as we can. I want, if you please, your word of honour that you will hold no sort of communication with him until I give you leave to do so. That you will neither see him nor write to him nor receive letters from him.” “Oh, I must promise, I suppose. Though it’s rather hard upon him, considering that the picture affair was my fault, and not his at all.” “He must expect to take his share of the blame,” said Sir Robert. “And now, my dear, since we shall be more dependent upon each other’s society, I hope you will not find me very exacting or very tiresome.” His tone was full of tenderness, but it met with no response from Lady Sarah. Perhaps, in the circumstances, it was scarcely likely that the spoilt beauty would receive his overtures graciously. She rose, shrugged her shoulders, and saying briefly, “Oh, I shall be very good,” she went out of the room forgetting that she had had no breakfast. Sir Robert looked depressed and uneasy. It was not a good beginning, certainly, of the happy domestic life he had begun to hope for. Before the day was over it became plain that Lady Sarah had thought the matter out, and had made up her mind what part to play. She showed herself wonderfully bright, lively, charming, not only to her husband, but to Rhoda, so that Minnie raised her eyebrows, and, after making futile guesses as to what could have happened, and as to the reason of Jack Rotherfield’s abrupt disappearance, expressed the opinion that her aunt was too amiable to be able to “keep it up.” But she was wrong. Day after day passed and still Lady Sarah was sweet-tempered and bright, playful with her husband, amusing with Rhoda and Minnie, and affectionate to Caryl. Sir Robert was delighted at this new phase of his wife’s character, and congratulated himself, dear, simple man, on the accident which had seemed so terrible at the time, which had given him an opportunity of putting matters on a sound and safe footing. But Rhoda and Minnie, with their acute feminine perception of character, detected something forced in Lady Sarah’s laughter, something insincere and hollow in her amiability. She chatted with a vivacity which was almost feverish, and her laughter did not, to their keen ears, ring quite true.