e not to look at her, not to distract her with the sight of
him--probably for his own sake, John thought bitterly, that she might
not risk breaking down. But he was there, and knew where she was to be
found. And he had seen the boy, and had cared enough to fix his gaze
upon him, that gaze which John had found intolerable at the theatre. And
he was on the eve of becoming Lord St. Serf, and Pippo his heir. What
was to be the issue of these complications? What was to happen to her
who had hid the boy so long, who certainly could hide him no more?

He took her home to Ebury Street shortly after, where Philip, weary of
waiting, and having made a meal he much wanted off the sandwiches, had
gone out again in his restlessness and unhappiness. Elinor, who had
become paler and paler as the carriage approached Ebury Street, and who
by the time she reached the house looked really as if at last she must
swoon, her heart choking her, her breathing quick and feverish, had
taken hold of John to support herself, clutching at his arm, when she
was told that Philip was out. She came to herself instantly on the
strength of that news. "Tell him when he comes in to make haste," she
said, "for Mr. Tatham is waiting for him. As for me I am fit for nothing
but bed. I have had a very tiring day."

"You do look tired, ma'am," said the sympathetic landlady. "I'll run up
and put your room ready, and then I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

John Tatham thought that, notwithstanding her exhaustion, her anxiety,
all the realities of troubles present and to come that were in her mind
and in her way, there was a flash something like triumph in Elinor's
eyes. "Tell Pippo," she said, "he can come up and say good-night to me
before he goes. I am good for nothing but my bed. If I can sleep I shall
be able for all that is before me to-morrow." The triumph was quenched,
however, if there had been triumph, when she gave him her hand, with a
wistful smile, and a sigh that filled that to-morrow with the terror and
the trouble that must be in it, did she do what she said. John went up
to the little drawing-room to wait for Pippo, with a heavy heart. It
seemed to him that never had Elinor been in so much danger. She had
exposed herself to the chance of losing the allegiance of her son: she
was at the mercy of her husband, that husband whom she had renounced,
yet whom she had not refused to save, whose call she had obeyed to help
him, though she had thrown off all