ll her
meek gentleness she had still the attitude of a perfectly innocent
person. It must be because she was only half English, and foreigners
perhaps had different points of reasoning on all such questions.

The man had gone, then--out of her life. Yes, he would take her back to
Wrayth if it would be any comfort to her.

"Will you get ready now?" he said, controlling his voice into a note of
sternness which he was far from feeling. "Because I am sure you ought
not to be out late in the damp air. I was going in the open car, and to
drive myself, and it takes four hours. The closed one is not in London,
as you know." And then he saw she was not fit for this, so he said
anxiously, "But are you sure you ought to travel to-day at all? You look
so awfully pale."

For there was a great difference in her present transparent, snowy
whiteness, with the blue-circled eyes, to her habitual gardenia hue;
even her lips were less red.

"Yes, yes, I am quite able to go," she said, rising to show him she was
all right. "I will be ready in ten minutes. Henriette can come by train
with my things." And she walked towards the door, which he held open for
her. And here she paused, and then went on to the lift. He followed her
quickly.

"Are you sure you can go up alone?" he asked anxiously. "Or may I come?"

"Indeed, I am quite well," she answered, with a little pathetic smile.
"I will not trouble you. Wait, I shall not be long." And so she went up.

And when she came down again, all wrapped in her furs, she found
Tristram had port wine ready for her, poured out.

"You must drink this--a big glass of it," he said; and she took it
without a word.

Then when they got to the door she found instead of his own open motor
he had ordered one of her uncle's closed ones, which with footwarmer and
cushions was waiting, so that she should be comfortable and not catch
further cold.

"Thank you--that is kind of you," she said.

He helped her in, and the butler tucked the fur rug over them, while
Tristram settled the cushions. Then she leaned back for a second and
closed her eyes--everything was going round.

He was very troubled about her. She must have been very ill, even in the
short time--and then her grief,--for, even though she had been so much
separated from it, a mother always loves her child. Then this thought
hurt him again. He hated to remember about the child.

She lay there back against the pillows until they had got quite out