She sat down on a chair, and pressed her hands upon her bosom to still its beating. Her suspense and agitation were terrible. A sensitive nature, such as Mrs. Chattaway's, feels emotion in a most painful degree. Every sense was strung to its utmost tension. She listened for Rupert's footfall outside; waited with a sort of horror for the ringing of the house-bell announcing his arrival, her whole frame sick and faint. At last one came running up the avenue at a fleet pace, and the echoes of the bell were heard resounding through the house. Not daring to defy her husband by going down to let him in she knocked at his door and entered. "Shall I go down and open the door, James?" "No." "It is only five minutes past the half-hour." "Five minutes are the same in effect as five hours," answered Mr. Chattaway. "Unless he can be in before the half-hour, _he does not come in at all_." "It may be Cris," she resumed. "Nonsense! You know it is not Cris. Cris has his latch-key." Another alarming peal. "He can see the light in my dressing-room," she urged, with parched lips. "Oh, James, let me go down." "I tell you--No." There was no appeal against it. She knew there might be none. But she clasped her hands in agony, and gave utterance to the distress at her heart. "Where will he sleep? Where can he go, if we deny him entrance?" "Where he chooses. He does not enter here." And Mrs. Chattaway went back to her dressing-room, and listened in despair to further appeals from the bell. Appeals which she might not answer. CHAPTER XIII OPINIONS DIFFER The nights were chilly in the early autumn, and a blazing fire lighted up the drawing-room at Trevlyn Farm. On a comfortable sofa, drawn close to it, sat Mrs. Ryle, a warm shawl thrown over her black silk gown--soft cushions heaped around her. A violent cold had made an invalid of her for some days past, but she was recovering. Her face was softened by a white cap of delicate lace; but its lines had grown haughtier and firmer with her years. She wore well, and was handsome still.