'I have no means of knowing, save his own declaration, when he said good-bye to me on Thursday of last week. And he told me he was going to his old quarters at St. Aubin's.' 'Do you give credit to this, Mrs. Ormonde?' 'Annabel, I can say nothing. Yet, no! I do not believe it until it is confirmed beyond all doubt. I owe that to him, as you also do.' 'But it does not seem to you incredible. I saw that on your face.' 'One thing suggested here is incredible, wholly incredible. If there is any truth in the story at all, by this time she is his wife. So much we know, you and I, Annabel.' 'Yes.' 'Remember, it is possible that he is in Jersey. The old rooms may have been occupied.' 'The people would know where he had gone, I think, Though if he--if he was not alone, probably he would go to a new place at once. He may have told you the truth in saying he was going to Jersey.' 'Then it was needless to add the untruth. I did not ask him where he would live. Sit down, dear.' 'Thank you. I shall not stay now. I thought it was better to come to you with this at once. Please destroy the letter.' Mrs. Ormonde mused. 'Can you still go to your aunt's?' she asked, when Annabel moved for leave-taking. 'You are taking the truth for granted, Mrs. Ormonde.' 'I mean that we have no way of discovering whether it is true or not.' 'It will make no change. I shall not speak of it to father. There will be no change, in any case.' Again there fell a short silence. 'I can only wait in hope of hearing from him,' Mrs. Ormonde said. 'Of course. If my aunt says anything to me about it, I will write to you. Good-bye.' 'I shall see you to-morrow, as we arranged?' 'Oh yes. But, please, we won't refer again to this.' They parted as on an ordinary occasion. But Annabel did not go home at once. She walked down to the shore, and stood for a long time looking upon the dim sea. It was the very spot where Thyrza had stood that Sunday morning when she came out in the early sunlight. Annabel had often thought how fitting it was that at this period of her life she should leave the calm, voiceless shore of Ullswater for the neighbourhood of the never-resting waves. The sea had a voice of craving, and her heart responded with desire for completion of her being, with desire for love. The thought that she would be near Walter Egremont had a great part in her anticipation of London. She was not hitherto sure that she loved him. It was rather, 'Let me see him again, and discover how his presence affects me.' Yet his manifest coldness at the last meeting had caused her much vague heartache. She blamed herself for being so cold: was it not natural that he should take his tone from her? He would naturally watch to see how she bore herself to him, and, remembering Ullswater, he could not press for more than she seemed ready to give. Yet her reserve had been involuntary; assuredly she was not then moved with a longing to recover what she had rejected.