Foxwood court was alive with gaiety. At least, what stood for gaiety in that inwardly sad and sober house. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve had come for a fortnight's stay. Visits were being exchanged with the neighbours; dinner parties reigned. It was not possible for Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian to accept hospitality and not return it: and--at any rate during the sojourn of the Colonel and his wife--Sir Karl dared not shut themselves up as hermits lest comment should be excited. So the Court held its receptions, and went out to other people's: and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian dressed, and talked, and comported themselves just as though there was no shadow between them. Lady Andinnian was growing graver day by day: her very heart seemed to be withering. That Sir Karl paid his secret visits to the Maze at night two or three times a week, she knew only too well. One of the most innocent and naturally unsuspicious persons in the world was she: but, now that her eyes had been opened, she saw all clearly. Without watching and tracking the movements of her husband as Miss Blake had tracked them; in her guileless honour she could never have done that; Lady Andinnian was only too fully awake now to the nightly strolls abroad of her husband, and instinct told her for what purpose they were taken. Life for her at this present time seemed very hard to bear. The task she had imposed on herself--to endure in patience and silence--seemed well nigh an impracticable one. The daily cross that she had apportioned herself to take up felt too heavy for mortal frame to carry. Humiliation, jealousy, love, waged war with each other within her, and rendered her very wretched. It needed all the good and gentle and patient principles instilled into her from early childhood, it needed all the strength she was ever praying for, to hold on perseveringly in her bitter path, and make no sign. At times she thought that the silence to which she was condemned must eat away her heart; but a chance occurrence or two showed her that silence was not the worst phase she might have to bear. On the day after Mrs. Cleeve's arrival, she was upstairs in her daughter's chamber. Miss Blake was also there. Lucy had come in, hot and tired, from at afternoon walk to Margaret Sumnor's, and Aglaé had been summoned to help her to change her silk dress for an unpretending muslin. "I did not know it was so hot before I went out, or I would not have put on the silk," observed Lucy, "Sitting so quietly with you all the morning, mamma, in that cool drawing-room, talking of old times, I forgot the heat." Mrs. Cleeve made no particular reply. She was looking about her; taking silent notice. The doors of communication to the further chamber stood open, as was usual during the day: Lucy took care of that, to keep down suspicion in the house of there being any estrangement between herself and her husband. "And you have made this your sleeping room, Lucy, my dear?" observed Mrs. Cleeve. "Yes, mamma."