Next morning, as was natural, Everard endeavored to make a stand against the dismay which had taken possession of him, and succeeded for a short time, as long as he was fully occupied and amused, during which time he felt himself angry, and determined that he was a very badly-used man. This struggle he kept up for about a week, and did not answer Reine’s letter. But at last the conflict was too much for him. One day he rode over suddenly to Whiteladies, and informed them that he was going abroad for the rest of the Winter. He had nothing to do at Water Beeches, and country life was dull; he thought it possible that he might pass through Cannes on his way to Italy, as that was, on the whole, in Winter, the pleasantest way, and, of course, would see Herbert. But he did not mention Reine at all, nor her letter, and gave no reason for his going, except caprice, and the dulness of the country. “I have not an estate to manage like you,” he said to Miss Susan; and to Augustine, expressed his grief that he could not be present at the consecration of the Austin Chantry, which he had seen on his way white and bristling with Gothic pinnacles, like a patch upon the grayness of the old church. Augustine, whom he met on the road, with her gray hood over her head, and her hands folded in her sleeves, was roused out of her abstracted calm to a half displeasure. “Mr. Farrel-Austin will be the only representative of the family except ourselves,” she said; “not that I dislike them, as Susan does. I hope I do not dislike any one,” said the Gray Sister. “You can tell Herbert, if you see him, that I would have put off the consecration till his return--but why should I rob the family of four months’ prayers? That would be sinful waste, Everard; the time is too short--too short--to lose a day.” This was the only message he had to carry. As for Miss Susan, her chief anxiety was that he should say nothing about Giovanna. “A hundred things may happen before May,” the elder sister said, with such an anxious, worried look as went to Everard’s heart. “I don’t conceal from you that I don’t want her to stay.” “Then send her away,” he said lightly. Miss Susan shook her head; she went out to the gate with him, crossing the lawn, though it was damp, to whisper once again, “Nothing about her--say nothing about her--a hundred things may happen before May.”