His contempt for her pierced Alicia March’s soul, yet she began to have a dim apprehension of the nature of such men as Sir Percy Carlyon and Roger March, who could not be moved from the point of honour. Then, as there was nothing more to say, Sir Percy Carlyon bowed and left the room. He had not been in the house five minutes all told. Alicia drew her chair up to the fireside and watched the scurrying snow and listened to the wind clattering wildly under the eaves. She did not know whether to feel herself victor or vanquished. The time was, only a few years ago, when she would have glowed with the beauty and completeness of her revenge--all women are revengeful, but it is in general an unsated passion. Like most things ardently desired and long delayed, her triumph over Sir Percy Carlyon had lost its savour. She would be no better off if the Carlyons left Washington, and she felt tolerably sure that the next Ambassadress would be as equally obdurate towards her as was Lady Carlyon. Alicia March sighed and looked out of the window, where the fierce blasts tortured the budding trees, and the tender young grass shivered tinder the cruel sleet and snow. Alicia had felt herself strange in the position of an honourable, honoured woman, which Roger March had given her, but she felt more strange and forlorn when suddenly cast down into the abyss from which she had been raised. Pursued by intolerable loneliness, she returned to her own room, only to find herself more lonely still. While she sat in aimless reverie a letter in Colegrove’s handwriting was brought into her. She looked at it with faint interest, but it lay in her lap unopened for half-an-hour; then she broke the seal and read: "I have just heard that Roger March has been mortally ill for months, and is probably dead by this time. I must see you soon."