Gedge had told me that the place was near Budleigh-Salterton. Was it near enough, I wondered, for me to walk there, and was there a station? There might, I reflected, be a map in the library. I would be compelled to trace it out and seek my route, for I was absolutely ignorant of that corner of Devonshire. Yes, my best policy, I decided, was to return to the house, act as indifferently as possible, and meanwhile complete my plans for escape. I retraced my steps to the house by the path I had traversed, and upon the lawn was met by the man Gill, who announced-- "The luncheon-bell has rung, sir. I hope you feel a little better, sir." "Oh, much better," I answered airily, and with an effort at self-possession followed him into the imitation old-oak dining-room, which Gedge had shown me during our tour of the place. The woman with the powdered cheeks was already seated at the head of the table, erect and stately, with an expression of _hauteur_ which ill became her. "I hope you feel better after your walk," she said, as I seated myself. "Oh, much better," I responded in a tone of irony. "The pain has practically passed." "You should really rest," she said, in that squeaky, artificial tone which so jarred upon my nerves. "Do take the doctor's advice." It was on the tip of my tongue to make a further unwriteable remark regarding the doctor, but I managed to control myself and reply-- "Yes, I think after luncheon I shall lie down for a little time. I have, however, some pressing letters to write first." "Let Gedge attend to your correspondence for to-day," she urged, with that mock juvenility which rendered her so hideously ridiculous. "No," I responded. "I have, unfortunately, to attend to several pressing matters personally. Afterwards I will rest." "Do, there's a dear," she said. I bit my lip. She nauseated me when she used that affectionate term. The only woman I loved was Mabel Anson, but whether she were still alive, or whether married, I knew not. The very thought that I was bound in matrimony to this woman sitting in the high-backed chair of carved oak was disgusting. I loathed her. How I continued to eat the dishes Gill handed me I know not, nor do I remember what conversation passed between my pseudo-wife and myself as we sat there. Many were the abrupt and painful silences which fell between us. She struck me as an ascetic, strong-minded woman, who, before others, fawned upon me with an affected devotion which in one of her age was ludicrous; yet when we were alone she was rigid and overbearing, with the positive air of one who believed me far beneath her alike in social station and in intellect. When Gill was absent she spoke in a hard, patronising tone, which so angered me that with great difficulty I retained my temper.