Yes, she looks just the same, as the evening tints fall with a rosy glow on her rich hair and simple sun-bonnet. How innocent she appears in the plain, homely attire, and that strange but glorious smile parting her lips. There are daisies under her feet, and blue sky over her head; love is in her heart, but hell is in her eyes. Her eyes droop. The children cannot see--Hell! CHAPTER XIV. IN CLOUDS OF SILENCE FOLDED OUT OF SIGHT. While Eleanor is at Copthorne, Philip is staying in Trebovir Road with Mr. and Mrs. Lane. "I cannot think why I have not heard from Eleanor," he says one morning to Erminie. "For three days not a word--no answer to my letters or the telegram." "Really; it was a pity you were prevented from running down that afternoon. I expect she was disappointed." "I am not so sure about that," thinks Philip. "It is just possible she may have written to Lyndhurst. Did she know you were staying on with us?" "I told her so, but perhaps she forgot, or did not take it in. I shall go there to-morrow and see." Philip is uneasy about Eleanor. Her silence hurts him, for he still loves her passionately, in spite of their quarrels and her deceptions. All that day he thinks constantly of his wife, picturing her image at every turn, wondering how she passes her quiet days in the old farmhouse, and whether she is happy at Copthorne. He has sent her some books and papers she asked for, but they have not been acknowledged. He is not angry, but pained at her inconsideration, and the galling thought that he no longer holds even a corner in her heart is bitterest grief to him. His friends notice his depression in the City, and remark about it. The hours are long, and the spring sunshine seems laughing at him. He pines for the country, the fresh green, the old love--Eleanor! That evening the Lanes take him to the theatre. The play bores him to distraction, though they say that it is good. He remembers reading some excellent notices on it in the leading papers, and planning to take Eleanor the night after she returns. He is one of a gay, light-hearted party, and goes on with them to sup at the Savoy, feeling like a spectre at the feast. They sit at the same table where he once found his wife with that smiling hypocrite, Mrs. Mounteagle, and the man he hates, loathes, fears. These recollections render Philip but a poor companion. Erminie, noticing his low spirits, planned the evening's entertainment to cheer him up. She has a pretty little sister-in-law with her, who prattles merrily, and reminds Mr. Roche somewhat of Eleanor, in a tantalising manner, when she laughs and he catches her profile.