of it starting up in his mind like sparks of light while he
regarded Reardon's neat shrubs healthily growing, as if the last drop of
fertilising had been poured into them at this spring awakening, and all
pruned to a wholesome symmetry. Then, hearing the sound of a door and
painfully averse to meeting Reardon, he went on and mounted the steps of
the great brick house where his daughter-in-law lived. And here the
adventure came to an abrupt stop. The maid, perfectly courteous and yet
with an air of readiness even he, the most unsuspecting of men, could
not fail to recognise, told him, almost before he had finished his
inquiry, that Mrs. Blake was not at home. She would not be at home that
afternoon. No, sir, not the next day. Madam Bell, Esther's grandmother,
he asked for then. No, sir, she was not at home. Looking in the smooth
sanguine face of the girl, noting mechanically her light eyelashes and
the spaces between her teeth, he knew she lied. Yet he was a courteous
gentleman, and did not report that to his inner mind. He bestowed his
card upon Sapphira, and walked away at his sedate pace, more than
anything puzzled. Esther was not proposing to take part in their coming
drama. He couldn't count on her. He was doubly sorry because this
defection was going to make Anne and Lydia hate her more than ever, and
he was averse to the intensification of hatred. He was no mollycoddle,
but he had an intuition that hatred is of no use. It hindered things,
all sorts of things: kindliness, even justice.

The girls were waiting for him at the door, but reading his face, they
seemed, while not withdrawing themselves bodily, really to slip away, in
order not even tacitly to question him. They had a marvellous
unwillingness to bring a man to the bar. There was no over-tactful
display of absence, but their minds simply would not set upon and
interrogate his, nor skulk round corners to spy upon it. But he had to
tell them, and he was anxious to get it over. Just as they seemed now
about to melt away to urgent tasks, he called them back.

"She's not at home," said he.

Anne looked a species of defeated interest. Lydia's eyes said
unmistakably, "I don't believe it." The colonel was tired enough to want
to say, "I don't either," but he never felt at liberty to encourage
Lydia's too exuberant candour.

"She's not to be at home to-morrow," he said. "It looks as if she'd gone
for--for the present," he ended lamely, put down his hat and went