Before the arrival of Lord Chetwynde, Gualtier, in his capacity of steward, had been accustomed to have frequent interviews with Hilda. Now they were all over. Since that arrival he had not spoken to her once, nor had he once got so much as a glance of her eye. At first he accounted for it from very natural causes. He attributed it to the anxiety which she felt at the presence of Lord Chetwynde, and at the desperate part which she had to play. For some time this seemed sufficient to account for every thing. But afterward he learned enough to make him think it possible that there were other causes. He heard the gossip of the servants' hall, and from that he learned that it was the common opinion of the servants that Lady Chetwynde was very fond of Lord Chetwynde, but that the latter was very distant and reserved in his manner toward her. This started him on a new track for conjecture, and he soon learned and saw enough to get some general idea of the truth. Yet, after all, it was not the actual truth which he conjectured. His conclusion was that Hilda was playing a deep game in order to win Lord Chetwynde's affection to herself. The possibility of her actually loving him did not then suggest itself. He looked upon it as one of those profound pieces of policy for which he was always on the look-out from her. The discovery of this disturbed him. The arrival of Lord Chetwynde had troubled him; but this new plan of Hilda's troubled him still more, and all the more because he was now shut out from her confidence. "The little thing is up to a new game; and she'll beat," he said to himself; "she'll beat, for she always beats. She's got a long head, and I can only guess what it is that she is up to. She'll never tell me." And he thought, with some pensiveness, upon the sadness of that one fact, that she would never tell him. Meanwhile he contented himself with watching until something more definite could be known.