in the morning before her husband was up. She had her in
the evenings when they were not going out, but these were few. As for
Philip, he never dined at home. When he had no engagements he dined at
his club, leaving Elinor with her mother. He gave Mrs. Dennistoun very
little of his company, and when they did meet there was in his manner
too a sort of reflection of the superciliousness of the "smart" visitors
and the "smart" servant. She was to him, too, in some degree the
landlady, the old lady down-stairs. Elinor, as was natural, redoubled
her demonstrations of affection, her excuses and sweet words to make up
for this neglect: but all the time there was in her mother's mind that
dreadful doubt which assails us when we have committed ourselves to one
act or another, "Was it wise? Would it not have been better to have
denied herself and stayed away?" So far as self-denial went, it was more
exercised in Curzon Street than it would have been at the Cottage. For
she had to see many things that displeased her and to say no word; to
guess at the tears, carefully washed away from Elinor's eyes, and to ask
no questions, and to see what she could not but feel was the violent
career downward, the rush that must lead to a catastrophe, but make no
sign. There was one evening when Elinor, not looking well or feeling
well, had stayed at home, Philip having a whole long list of engagements
in hand; men's engagements, his wife explained, a stockbroking dinner,
an adjournment to somebody's chambers, a prolonged sitting, which meant
play, and a great deal of wine, and other attendant circumstances into
which she did not enter. Elinor had no engagement for that night, and
was free to be petted and feted by her mother. She was put at her ease
in a soft and rich dressing-gown, and the prettiest little dinner
served, and the room filled with flowers, and everything done that used
to be done when she was recovering from some little mock illness, some
child's malady, just enough to show how dear above everything was the
child to the mother, and with what tender ingenuity the mother could
invent new delights for the child. These delights, alas! did not
transport Elinor now as they once had done, and yet the repose was
sweet, and the comfort of this nearest and dearest friend to lean upon
something more than words could say.

On this evening, however, in the quiet of those still hours, poor
Elinor's heart was opened, or rather her mouth, which o