eloquent of fatigue and distress.

'Mrs. Mumford--I couldn't--without asking you to forgive me--'

Her voice broke with a sob. She stood in a humble attitude, and
Emmeline, though pierced with vexation, had no choice but to hold
out a welcoming hand.

'Have you come all the way back from London just to say this?'

'I haven't been to London. I've walked about--all day--and oh, I'm
so tired and miserable! Will you let me stay, just for to-night? I
shall be so grateful.'

'Of course you may stay, Miss Derrick. It was very far from my wish
to see you go off at a moment's notice. But I really couldn't stop
you.'

Mumford had stepped aside, out of hearing. He forgot his private
embarrassment in speculation as to the young woman's character. That
she was acting distress and penitence he could hardly believe;
indeed, there was no necessity to accuse her of dishonest behaviour.
The trivial concealment between him and her amounted to nothing, did
not alter the facts of the situation. But what could be at the root
of her seemingly so foolish existence? Emmeline held to the view
that she was in love with the man Cobb, though perhaps unwilling to
admit it, even in her own silly mind. It might be so, and, _if_ so,
it made her more interesting; for one was tempted to think that
Louise had not the power of loving at all. Yet, for his own part, he
couldn't help liking her; the eyes at had looked into his at the
station haunted him a little, and would not let him think of her
contemptuously. But what a woman to make ones wife! Unless--unless--

Louise had gone into the house. Emmeline approached her husband.

'There! I foresaw it. Isn't vexing?'

'Never mind, dear. She'll go to morrow, or the day after.'

'I wish I could be sure of that.'

CHAPTER VI

Louise did not appear again that evening. Thoroughly tired, she
unpacked her trunks, sat awhile by the open window, listening to a
piano in a neighbouring house, and then jumped into bed. From ten
o'clock to eight next morning she slept soundly.

At breakfast her behaviour was marked with excessive decorum. To the
ordinary civilities of her host and hostess she replied softly,
modestly, in the manner of a very young and timid girl; save when
addressed, she kept silence, and sat with head inclined; a virginal
freshness breathed about her; she ate very little, and that without
her usual gusto, but rather as if performing a dainty ceremony. Her
eyes never moved in Mum