"Madam, your servant," "HONORIA PRYSE." There was no address and no date on the letter, which had come through the threepenny post; Susannah folded it again and replaced it in the desk. An extraordinary epistle and one that she could not dismiss from her mind; at first she had called its nature insolence, now it seemed to her to contain a strange kind of sincerity; she could not believe that the writer meant her harm. And it was the truth. Marius was the better man; but she---- Miss Chressham checked herself with a smile. It was not her part to be thinking of herself; her own feelings, her own views had been repressed all her life; she was for ever acting for others, shielding others, defending others, encouraging others; who cared what she might feel or what passion might lie beneath her calm? No one excepting Marius. Excepting Marius! Well, it was her own perversity, her own misfortune that she could not take the only affection that had been offered her. She firmly turned her thoughts from her own affairs and proceeded to write to Selina Boyle. But the words would not come; sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown aside: one sentence sounded foolish, another blunt, a third had no meaning. A thousand things distracted her; the long ray of sunlight falling between the curtains, a rose that had dropped from its vase on to the mantelshelf, the title of a book lying on a table near; these and such foolish trifles. She pushed back her chair in despair and, turning her head, caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the harpsichord. She was astonished at her own extreme pallor; she told herself it must be the effect of the dead-white wrapper she wore. With a little shiver she put aside pens and paper. She would write to Selina in the evening when she had seen my lord; there was still so much for her to say to him. Again she glanced, almost guiltily, at the mirror; her ghastly appearance was no fancy. The house was very quiet, surely it was time some of the servants were abroad; the clock pointed to close on six. With a pang of surprise she heard her own heart beating furiously and felt the blood tingling in her head; she rose, expectant of something. "Rose," she found herself saying, "Rose." She thought he was coming, that any moment he would push open the door and greet her with his weary smile. Then she told herself that this was pure folly. "But something has happened," she said, "something has happened." Should she call my lady, or her maid? The silence of the house was terrifying, the loneliness insupportable. The clock struck six. "Something has happened," repeated Susannah. "What is it?" It was not her way to seek help or company. She went swiftly upstairs and put on her hat and pelisse; there was only one thing to do. She must go to Lyndwood House and find out. "What has happened?" she kept repeating to herself. "Find out what has happened."