t her lamp and never to light it again.

The end of it all was that I determined to see the Bishop and my
father's advocate, Mr. Curphy, and perhaps my father himself, that I
might know one way or the other where I was, and what was to become of
me. But how to do this I could not see, having a houseful of people who
were nominally my guests.

Fortune--ill-fortune--favoured me. News came that my father had suddenly
fallen ill of some ailment that puzzled the doctors, and making this my
reason and excuse I spoke to my husband, asking if I might go home for
two or three days.

"Why not?" he said, in the tone of one who meant, "Who's keeping you?"

Then in my weakness I spoke to Alma, who answered:

"Certainly, my sweet girl. We shall miss you _dreadfully_, but it's your
duty. And then you'll see that _dear_ Mr. . . . What d'ye callum?"

Finally, feeling myself a poor, pitiful hypocrite, I apologised for my
going away to the guests also, and they looked as if they might say:
"We'll survive it, perhaps."

The night before my departure my maid said:

"Perhaps your ladyship has forgotten that my time's up, but I'll stay
until you return if you want me to."

I asked her if she would like to stay with me altogether and she said:

"Indeed I should, my lady. Any woman would like to stay with a good
mistress, if she _is_ a little quick sometimes. And if you don't want me
to go to your father's I may be of some use to you here before you come
back again."

I saw that her mind was still running on divorce, but I did not reprove
her now, for mine was turning in the same direction.

Next morning most of the guests came to the hail door to see me off, and
they gave me a shower of indulgent smiles as the motor-car moved away.

FIFTY-NINTH CHAPTER

Before going to my father's house I went to the Bishop's. Bishop's Court
is at the other side of the island, and it was noon before I drove under
its tall elm trees, in which a vast concourse of crows seemed to be
holding a sort of general congress.

The Bishop was then at his luncheon, and after luncheon (so his liveried
servant told me) he usually took a siesta. I have always thought it was
unfortunate for my interview that it came between his food and his
sleep.

The little reception-room into which I was shown was luxuriously, not to
say gorgeously, appointed, with easy chairs and sofas, a large portrait
of the Pope, signed by the Holy Father himself, and a number