membered that not even a civil formality with regard to Sir William
had fallen from his lips. But Sir William's wife, for whatever reason,
had also not once mentioned the baronet's name.

* * *

Only a few days passed before Widdowson received the summons he was
expecting. It came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to his
wife; not a word of news added. At the time of its arrival he was
taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether he could
get to Paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would enable him
to reach Clevedon that night. He managed it, with only two or three
minutes to spare.

Not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his
thoughts on the end of the journey. An inexpressible repugnance then
affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any
injury which might prevent his going to Monica at such a time. Often,
in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had confused and
darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. If the child, perhaps
already born, were in truth his, it must be very long before he could
regard it with a shadow of paternal interest; uncertainty, to which he
was condemned, would in all likelihood make it an object of aversion to
him as long as he lived.

He was at Bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a slow
train, which by ten o'clock brought him to Yatton, the little junction
for Clevedon. It was a fine starry night, but extremely cold. For the
few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about the platform. His
chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go well with Monica.
Whether he could believe what she had to tell him or not, it would be
worse if she were to die before he could hear her exculpation. The
anguish of remorse would seize upon him.

Alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards
and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped out.
No cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and hastened
with all speed in the direction that he remembered. But very soon the
crossways had confused him. As he met no one whom he could ask to
direct him, he had to knock at a door. Streaming with perspiration, he
came at length within sight of his own house. A church clock was
striking eleven.

Alice and Virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was
opened; they beckoned him into a room.

'Is it over?' he asked, staring fro