And then Rhoda could not help noticing that Lady Sarah became suddenly much more fond of taking walks by herself than formerly, and saw her coming out of a little newspaper shop in the High Street, where it was very unlikely that she would buy either books or stationery. Rhoda, ashamed of herself for the thought, came nevertheless to the conclusion that Lady Sarah went there to get letters which she could not safely receive at home. The suspicion was a dreadful one to bear, for if she was right, Rhoda saw that Lady Sarah had not scrupled to break her promise to her husband as soon as it was made. Rhoda changed her own line of conduct a little, gave up, as much as possible, her share of Sir Robert’s work, in the hope that his wife would take it up. The only result was, however, that, used to Rhoda’s orderly ways, poor Sir Robert soon got into a hopeless muddle with his notes and manuscripts, when he was thus suddenly left once more to his own devices, while Lady Sarah secretly enjoyed his discomfiture. Rhoda, meanwhile, kept almost entirely to Caryl’s rooms, except when he went out, when she never failed to accompany him. She scarcely ever got a moment to herself, and she had been thus almost confined to the house for a fortnight, when, running down the hill to the pillar-box at the corner to post a letter to one of her sisters, she caught sight of a motor-car turning into a side-road, and asked herself, with a horrible shock of suspicion and surprise, whether it was not that of Jack Rotherfield. It was dusk, and she knew there was a possibility that she might have been mistaken; but the presence of Jack in the neighbourhood, in spite of his promise and Lady Sarah’s, was only too probable, and much against her own inclination, Rhoda felt obliged to keep a look out for eventualities. When she got home, she was surprised to find Lady Sarah in Caryl’s room, sitting by the boy, holding his hand, and speaking to him with much more than her usual kindness and sweetness. Rhoda held her breath, and her cheeks blanched with a growing fear. Was this only a coincidence, the reappearance of Jack Rotherfield, and the sudden undergrowth in Lady Sarah of something like an ordinary mother’s love for her child? Rhoda could not but ask herself the question; and when Lady Sarah looked up at her quickly, and holding out her hand, said: “Ah, Miss Pembury, I’ve been trying to interest Caryl, but you are his real mother, and I hope you always will be.” Rhoda could scarcely make an audible answer, so strong was her conviction that important events were impending. Lady Sarah was dressed for dinner, and was looking, Rhoda thought, even handsomer than usual, her eyes being very bright, and her whole countenance suffused with an unusual softness, as if at last she had found out how to feel.