To Sara, the whole thing continued to grow more and more like a hideous dream. She thought she must have been there an hour, and that she might plead her headache as an excuse, and go away. Looking at a great _Schwarzwälder_ which hung against the wall of the hall, she saw that it was just ten minutes since she had entered the house. The rooms were unusually full that evening, and less notice was taken of her than usual; but several pairs of eyes were fixed upon her in wondering astonishment, and she was collected enough to see it, and to desire more strongly than ever to get away. But a mere trifle prevented her–the idea, namely, of the surprise and pity she would see in Frau Wilhelmi’s eyes if she went up to her now ten minutes after her arrival, and took leave. She looked around for a chair, feeling like some hunted creature which would escape, but is paralysed with fear when most it needs all its power of wind and limb. And as she looked round, some one took her hand, and a voice said: ‘Pardon me, Miss Ford–you look ill to-night. Would you like to sit down?’ It was Rudolf who addressed her. For a moment the horrible strain of the nervous tension under which she was suffering relaxed; as she looked up at him her eyes wavered; her lips and nostrils fluttered for an instant, and she drew a long breath. The end of her endurance was coming, she felt. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, in a voice that did not rise above a whisper. He drew her hand through his arm, saying, ‘Let us go to the hall–there is a bench there;’ and as he spoke, he glanced casually and unthinkingly down at the hand which a moment ago his own had covered–at Sara’s left hand. She wore a pair of old white-lace mittens–one of the few relics of old prosperity which remained to her, and this allowed her hands and their adornments to be fully seen. As Falkenberg glanced at that hand, he missed something. He paused, as they passed out; his eyes leaped to her face, to her hand; back to her face again. Sara’s eyes had followed his. The first flush of colour that had touched her cheeks since Ellen had brought her message of sorrow, rushed over her face now. She understood the look, the glance which asked, ‘Your ring–where is it?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, beneath her breath, and then, as if mastering a momentary weakness, she recovered herself; her face took the same marble whiteness again. She let him lead her to a cushioned bench near a pyramid of ferns and a little fountain, which stood in the centre of the hall. She sat down, but it was only for a moment. Then she started up again, ‘Will you–would you mind taking me home again? I–I feel ill,’ she faltered, her powers of endurance at an end. ‘Surely I will,’ he answered, finding her cloak and wrapping it round her. Sara gathered up her dress, took his arm, and they passed out of the house. Five minutes’ walking brought them to the door of her home. Falkenberg rang the bell, and as they waited, he said: