Sara was deeply disturbed and surprised. The visit was totally unexpected, on that day at least. Like a flood there rushed over her mind the miserable conviction that Jerome had behaved at any rate with unpardonable carelessness, if not with deliberate intention of wrong-doing. She knew nothing of how far this man was in her lover’s confidence (and Somerville had no intention of furnishing her with any information on that point). She had not had time to consider and decide whether she should receive him cordially or otherwise. All this gave embarrassment and uncertainty to her manner, and made it quite unlike her usual one; while Somerville, as will readily be supposed, was as perfectly, as entirely self-possessed and at his ease here as in the Lecture Theatre at Brentwood, or pacing about the garden at Monk’s Gate with Jerome Wellfield, and recommending him to marry Anita Bolton. Being a very clever man, he had formed a theory of his own with regard to Sara, when Jerome had told him her occupation and given him her address. He had instantly imagined that she was the woman to whom Wellfield was ‘in honour bound.’ Now that he saw her, he was convinced of it, and he was not going to give her any assistance by making casual observations. All he said was: ‘I fear I come inopportunely.’ ‘I heard of your intended visit to Elberthal, Mr. Somerville, but had no idea you could be here so soon,’ she replied, distantly. ‘My business in Brussels and Bruges was over sooner than I expected,’ was the courteous reply, as he took the seat she pointed to. ‘Mr. Wellfield asked me to call here immediately on my arrival, and said he would write to you.’ ‘Yes, I have heard from him,’ replied Sara, reflecting with a cruel, bitter pang on the strange style of that communication, distracted how to act. Somehow she could not accept as final Jerome’s letter of yesterday. She still clung to an idea—a hope that she should hear from him countermanding the abrupt mandate. But she could not betray as much to this priest, for, from his entire manner, it was evident that he at least was following up arrangements which had not been contradicted. ‘I thought it best to call now,’ pursued Somerville, pleasantly, perfectly conscious of her disturbance, ‘as I am absolutely obliged to leave for England the day after to-morrow, and felt that you ought to be informed of the fact.’ ‘The day after to-morrow? Mr. Wellfield in his letter spoke of the end of the week.’ ‘When I left Brentwood, I quite supposed it would be the end of the week. But I am not my own master in this journey. I am under instructions.’ ‘Which, of course, have to be obeyed?’ observed Falkenberg, nonchalantly. ‘Exactly so,’ answered Somerville, turning his eyes upon him with the rapidity of lightning. Falkenberg met them with the same utter calm and unconcern. He had not moved from his chair close to Sara’s side.