Even so. In the meantime, this happens to be Westminster Abbey, where a working man, one Gilbert Grail, has often walked and sought solace from the bitterness of his accursed lot, where he has thought of a young girl who lives above him in the house, and who, as often as she passes him, is like a gleam of southern sky somehow slipped into the blank hideousness of a London winter. Hither he has doubtless come to try and realise that fate has been so merciful to him that he longs to thank some unknown deity and cry that all is good. Hither he will come again, with one whom he calls his wife-- Walter rose and went forth, went home. He had not been ten minutes in his room, when a servant appeared, to tell him that a lady had called and desired to see him, her name Mrs. Ormonde. She came in, looking bright and noble as ever, giving him both her hands. 'I am glad to see you. I did not expect you to-day. Will you sit down?' He did not know what he said. Mrs. Ormonde examined him, and for a moment kept silence. 'You have come up to-day?' 'Yes. I have come here direct from the station, because I wished to make use of you. But it seems to me that the doctor would have been a more fitting visitor. What has come to you, Walter?' 'It is true. I am not well. But always well enough to desire to serve you.' 'Though not, seemingly, to bear in mind my first wish. Why have you not answered my last letter, as I particularly asked you to? If you were ill, why have you remained here alone? I am angry with you.' He was reflecting, as absorbedly as if she had not been in the room. She was his friend, if any man had one; she was of the priceless women who own both heart and brain. Should he speak out and tell her everything? If he did so, he was saved. He would leave town. Grail should come back, after the wedding holiday, and get on with the arrangement of the library under written directions. Illness would explain such a step. In a month, all would be right again. 'Walter!' Her eyes were searching him. Did she half know? He had written so foolishly in the letter about Thyrza. But it was impossible that she could divine such a thing. The circumstances made it too incredible. 'Tell me,' she went on. 'What has caused your illness?' No, he could not. She would scorn him. And he could not bear to sink in her estimation. He could not seem childish before her. 'I have no idea,' he answered. 'Perhaps I have so accustomed myself to rambling over land and sea, that a year without change is proving too much for me. I must have the library started, and then be off--anywhere--a voyage to New Zealand!' Mrs. Ormonde showed disappointment. She did not believe that this was the truth, even as he knew it. The truth was glimmering in the rear of her thoughts, but she would not allow it to come forward; in plain daylight it was really difficult to entertain. Still, as an instinct it was there, instinct supported even by certain pieces of evidence.