Sir Nugent Uffington found his brougham waiting at the Victoria Station, and as he handed Lady Forestfield into it he gave her a few words of parting counsel. She was to expect a great physical change in her husband's condition, he told her, and was not to be frightened; she was to be prepared to hear many things during the sick man's ravings which would necessarily pain her, but she must listen to them with patience; unasked she had declared her intention of doing her duty, and that must be her consolation. Then, promising to see her the next day, he took his leave, and the carriage containing her rolled away. It was a dismal autumnal night, and the long lines of lamps reflected in the wet pavement struck May, staring out of the carriage window, with strange familiarity. It was months now since she had seen London lighted up by night, for the time of her residence in Podbury-street had been during the long days and evenings of the summer; and now her thoughts insensibly reverted to the time when night after night, with unvarying regularity, she was whirled away to some gay scene of triumph, where her presence was anxiously expected, and where her command was law. That was all over now she knew, and save for the time wasted and the precious opportunities missed, she could think of it all without regret; in her quiet solitude at Woodburn she had learned the great secret of happiness, in endeavouring to do her duty, and she looked back upon her early days of feverish excitement with feelings of sorrow and disgust. What was before her now she knew not, but in breaking away from the calm life, and in trying to alleviate the sufferings of him who, whatever had happened, was her husband 'after all,' she had obeyed the dictates of her conscience, and knew she had acted rightly. But notwithstanding this sense of rectitude, May felt her heart sink within her as the carriage drew near to Seamore-place, and it needed all her fortitude to prevent her bursting into tears. Painfully and vividly rose before her the scene which had occurred when she quitted the place which had been her home, never, as she thought, to return again. The agony of shame which she had felt as she passed the servants, all of whom she could not but know were acquainted with the cause of her degradation; the terrible heart-sickness which beset her as she crossed the threshold an outcast and a wanderer--what humiliation must she go through in meeting these people again! It would have been almost better, she thought, to have remained in her solitude, unheard of and uncared for; but she had accepted the issue and must abide by it.