and left
home--simply to walk, to exert herself physically, that fatigue and
sleep might follow. There was a dull sky, but no immediate fear of
rain; the weather brightened a little towards noon. Careless of the
direction, she walked on and on until the last maddening church bell
had ceased its clangour; she was far out in the western suburbs, and
weariness began to check her quick pace. Then she turned back. Without
intending it, she passed by Mrs. Cosgrove's house, or rather would have
passed, when she saw Mrs. Cosgrove at the dining-room window making
signs to her. In a moment the door opened and she went in. She was glad
of this accident, for the social lady might have something to tell
about Mrs. Widdowson, who often visited her.

'In mercy, come and talk to me!' exclaimed Mrs. Cosgrove. 'I am quite
alone, and feel as if I could hang myself. Are you obliged to go
anywhere?'

'No. I was having a walk.'

'A walk? What astonishing energy! It never occurs to me to take a walk
in London. I came from the country last night and expected to find my
sister her, but she won't arrive till Tuesday. I have been standing at
the window for an hour, getting crazy with _ennui_.'

They went to the drawing-room. It was not long before Mrs. Cosgrove
made an allusion which enabled Rhoda to speak of Mrs. Widdowson. For a
month or more Mrs. Cosgrove had seen and heard nothing of her; she had
been out of town all the time. Rhoda hesitated, but could not keep
silence on the subject that had become a morbid preoccupation of her
mind. She told as much as she knew--excepting the suspicion against
Everard Barfoot.

'It doesn't in the least surprise me,' said the listener, with
interest. 'I saw they wouldn't be able to live together very well.
Without children the thing was impossible. Of course she has told you
all about it?'

'I haven't seen her since it happened.'

'Do you know, I always have a distinct feeling of pleasure when I hear
of married people parting. How horrible that would seem to some of our
good friends! But it isn't a malicious pleasure; there's nothing
personal in it. As I have told you before, I think, I led a very
contented life with my husband. But marriage in general is _such_ a
humbug--you forgive the word.'

'Of course it is,' assented Rhoda, laughing with forced gaiety.

'I am glad of anything that seems to threaten it as an institution--in
its present form. A scandalous divorce case is a delight to
me--an