nd had fled before him. The door
into Mrs. Boyce's sitting-room was still ajar.

He looked again at the envelope on the chair, and recognised the
writing. Walking across to where Mrs. Boyce sat, he took a seat beside
her.

"Will you tell me," he said steadily--"I think you will admit I have a
right to know--is Marcella in constant correspondence now with Henry
Wharton?"

Mrs. Boyce's start was not perceptible.

"I believe so," she quickly replied. "So far as I can judge, he writes
to her almost every other day."

"Does she show you his letters?"

"Very often. They are entirely concerned with his daily interviews and
efforts on Hurd's behalf."

"Would you not say," he asked, after another pause, raising his clear
grey eyes to her, "that since his arrival here in December Marcella's
whole views and thoughts have been largely--perhaps vitally--influenced
by this man?"

Mrs. Boyce had long expected questions of this kind--had, indeed, often
marvelled and cavilled that Aldous had not asked them weeks before. Now
that they were put to her she was, first of all, anxious to treat them
with common sense, and as much plain truth as might be fair to both
parties. The perpetual emotion in which Marcella lived tired and
oppressed the mother. For herself she asked to see things in a dry
light. Yet she knew well that the moment was critical. Her feeling was
more mixed than it had been. On the whole it was indignantly on Aldous's
side--with qualifications and impatiences, however.

She took up her embroidery again before she answered him. In her
opinion the needle is to the woman what the cigarette is to the
diplomatist.

"Yes, certainly," she said at last. "He has done a great deal to form
her opinions. He has made her both read and think on all those subjects
she has so long been fond of talking about."

She saw Aldous wince; but she had her reasons for being plain with him.

"Has there been nothing else than that in it?" said Aldous, in an odd
voice.

Mrs. Boyce tried no evasions. She looked at him straight, her slight,
energetic head, with its pale gold hair lit up by the March sun behind
her.

"I do not know," she said calmly; "that is the real truth. I _think_
there is nothing else. But let me tell you what more I think."

Aldous laid his hand on hers for an instant. In his pity and liking for
her he had once or twice allowed himself this quasi-filial freedom.

"If you would," he entreated.

"Leave Marcell