ast chapter--a talk of
which Mrs. Ansell's letter to him had been the direct result. She had
promised Mr. Langhope that, in writing to Amherst, she would not go
beyond the briefest statement of fact; and she had kept her word,
trusting to circumstances to speak for her.

Mrs. Ansell, during Cicely's illness, had formed the habit of dropping
in on Mr. Langhope at the tea hour instead of awaiting him in her own
drawing-room; and on the Sunday in question she found him alone.
Beneath his pleasure in seeing her, which had grown more marked as his
dependence on her increased, she at once discerned traces of recent
disturbance; and her first question was for Cicely.

He met it with a discouraged gesture. "No great change--Amherst finds
her less well than when he was here before."

"He's upstairs with her?"

"Yes--she seems to want him."

Mrs. Ansell seated herself in silence behind the tea-tray, of which she
was now recognized as the officiating priestess. As she drew off her
long gloves, and mechanically straightened the row of delicate old cups,
Mr. Langhope added with an effort: "I've spoken to him--told him what
you said."

She looked up quickly.

"About the child's wish," he continued. "About her having written to his
wife. It seems her last letters have not been answered."

He paused, and Mrs. Ansell, with her usual calm precision, proceeded to
measure the tea into the fluted Georgian tea-pot. She could be as
reticent in approval as in reprehension, and not for the world would she
have seemed to claim any share in the turn that events appeared to be
taking. She even preferred the risk of leaving her old friend to add
half-reproachfully: "I told Amherst what you and the nurse thought."

"Yes?"

"That Cicely pines for his wife. I put it to him in black and white."
The words came out on a deep strained breath, and Mrs. Ansell faltered:
"Well?"

"Well--he doesn't know where she is himself."

"Doesn't _know_?"

"They're separated--utterly separated. It's as I told you: he could
hardly name her."

Mrs. Ansell had unconsciously ceased her ministrations, letting her
hands fall on her knee while she brooded in blank wonder on her
companion's face.

"I wonder what reason she could have given him?" she murmured at length.

"For going? He loathes her, I tell you!"

"Yes--but _how did she make him_?"

He struck his hand violently on the arm of his chair. "Upon my soul, you
seem to forget!"

"No." She shook