CHAPTER XXXII A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING “Anglesea watched me closely, as if in anxiety to see how much this suspense and uncertainty might affect my health and spirits. And I think he was surprised and pleased to discover that I was not distressed by the situation. “It was on the eighth day after my letter had been dispatched that the subject of that letter was first mentioned. It was I who first spoke of it. “Anglesea came in to make his usual morning call. “After our greetings were over, and we had sat down, I said to him: “‘It is now more than a week since I wrote to Saviola. I have now no longer the faintest hope of receiving an answer to my letter. I shall not wait here longer. I shall leave Geneva to-morrow.’ “‘I never supposed for a moment that you would ever hear from him again. I knew, in fact, that it was impossible for you to do so; but I wished you to prove the question to yourself,’ he gravely replied. “‘You knew it! I thought that you inferred it!’ I exclaimed. “‘My inference amounted to moral conviction; moral conviction to positive knowledge.’ “I did not answer him. I scarcely understood him. “‘What do you propose to do, Elfrida?’ he inquired, gravely and tenderly taking my hand, and then adding: ‘Whatever it may be, you see me here ready to stand by you, to counsel and assist you to the utmost of my ability.’ “‘Oh! I thank you, Angus!—I thank you with all my heart and soul! You are indeed a friend and brother raised up to me in the time of need!’ “‘I see—I hope I see clearly—that you are wasting no vain regrets on the man who is unworthy of your thoughts,’ he said, with a strange look that puzzled me, coming from him. I cannot define the look; I had never seen such a one on his face before, and it troubled me; I answered him: “‘I am not grieving as you see; but we will not talk of Saviola; he is my husband after all, you know.’ “‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of equivocal tone that again disturbed me. “‘What shall you do now, Elfrida?—after leaving Geneva, I mean?’ he next inquired. “‘I shall go at once to England, cross over to Ireland, and take up my abode at Weirdwaste, where I lived so long before that fatal visit to Brighton.’ “‘To—Weirdwaste!’ he exclaimed, in some surprise. “‘Yes. It is a poor old manor, but it is my own property in right of my mother, and I shall come into full possession of it as soon as I am of age.’ “‘But—to that wild, dreary, solitary home, where you spent so many lonely, secluded, unhappy years. And of which you complained to your brother and myself so bitterly?’ “‘Yes. It seemed all that you have described it to be to my wilful and impatient childhood and youth, when I longed to see and know the world. I have seen and known enough, and more than enough, of the world, and now my thoughts turn to Weirdwaste and its quiet life as a haven of rest.’ “‘My poor Elfrida! You would wear your young heart out in such a solitude!’