Next morning the weather was fine; that is to say, one could read without artificial light, and no rain fell, and far above the house-tops appeared a bluish glimmer, shot now and then with pale yellowness. Harvey decided to carry out his intention of calling upon Mrs. Abbott. She lived at Kilburn, and thither he drove shortly before twelve o'clock. He was admitted to a very cosy room, where, amid books and pictures, and by a large fire, the lady of the house sat reading. Whatever the cause, it seemed to him that his welcome fell short of cordiality, and he hastened to excuse himself for intruding at so early an hour. 'I received a letter last night which I thought you had better know of without delay.' 'From that man--Mr. Wager?' said Mrs. Abbott quickly and hopefully, her face brightening. 'Yes. But there's nothing satisfactory in it. He writes from Liverpool, and merely says that the children are at his lodgings, and he can do no more for them.' Mrs. Abbott set her lips in an expression almost of sullenness. Rolfe had never seen her look thus, but it confirmed a suspicion which he had harboured concerning her. Why, he hardly knew--for she always presented a face of amiability, and talked in gentle, womanly tones--doubt as to Abbott's domestic felicity haunted his mind. Perhaps he now saw her, for the first time, as she commonly appeared to her husband--slightly peevish, unwilling to be disturbed, impatient when things did not run smoothly. 'You saw my husband yesterday?' was her next remark, not very graciously uttered. 'We met in the street last night--before I got Wager's letter. He was suffering horribly from neuralgia.' Harvey could not forbear to add this detail, but he softened his voice and smiled. 'I don't wonder at it,' returned the lady; 'he takes no care of himself.'