hat killed it; Owen felt sure of that when he entered his house,
glad of its comfort, glad to be home again; and sinking into his
armchair he began to read his letters, wondering how he should answer
the different invitations, for every one was now more than six months
old, some going back as far as eighteen months. It seemed absurd to
write to Lady So-and-so, thanking her for an invitation so long gone
by. All the same, he would like to see her, and all his friends, the
most tedious would be welcome now. He tore open the envelopes,
reading the letters greedily, unsuspicious of one amongst them which
would make him forget the others--a letter from Evelyn. It came at
last under his hand, and having glanced through it he sank back in
his chair, overcome, not so much by surprise that she had left her
convent as at finding that the news had put no great gladness into
his heart, rather, a feeling of disappointment.

"How little one knows about oneself!" But he wasn't sorry she had
left the convent. A terrible result of time and travel it would be if
his first feeling on opening her letter were one of disappointment.
He was sorry she had been disappointed, and thought for a long time
of that long waste of life, five years spent with nuns. "We are
strange beings, indeed," he said. And getting up, he looked out the
place she wrote from, discovering it to be a Surrey village, probably
about thirty miles from London, with a bad train service; and having
sent a telegram asking if it would suit her for him to go down to see
her next day, he fell back in his chair to think more easily how his
own life had been affected by Evelyn's retreat from the convent; and
again he experienced a feeling of disappointment. "A long waste of
life, not only of her life, but of mine," for he had travelled
thousands of miles... to forget her? Good heavens, no! What would his
life be without remembrance of Evelyn? He had come home believing
himself reconciled to the loss of Evelyn, and willing to live in
memories of her--the management of his estate a sufficient interest
for his life, and his thoughts were already engaged in the building
of a new gatehouse; after all, Riversdale was his business, and he
had come home to work for his successor while cherishing a dream--
wasn't it strange? But this letter had torn down his dream and his
life was again in pieces. Would he ever be at rest while she was
abroad? Would it not have been better for them both if