sure he should find her in the nursery, whither he took his way, when he
thought he had left sufficient time for her other occupations. But Lady
Randolph was not there. He heard from Fletcher, whose disturbed
countenance seemed to reflect his own, that her mistress had gone out.
She was the only one of the household who shared his certainty that
something had happened out of the ordinary routine. Fletcher knew that
her mistress had not undressed in the usual way; that she had not gone
to bed. Her own services had not been required either in the morning or
evening, and she had a strong suspicion that Lady Randolph had passed
the night on a sofa in the little morning-room upstairs. To Fletcher's
mind it was not very difficult to account for this. Quarrels between
husband and wife are common enough. But her consciousness and
sympathetic significance of look struck Sir Tom with a troubled sense of
the humour of the situation which broke the spell of his increasing
agitation, if but for a moment. It was droll to think that Fletcher
should be in a manner his confidant, the only participator in his woes.

Lucy had gone out half to avoid her husband, half with a determination
to expedite the business which she had begun, with very different
feelings the day before. The streets were very gay and bright on that
April morning, with all the quickening of life which many arrivals and
the approach of the season, with all its excitements, brings. Houses
were opening up, carriages coming out, even the groups of children and
nurse-maids in the Park making a sensible difference on the other side
of the great railing. It was very unusual for her to find herself in the
streets alone, and this increased the curious dazed sensation with which
she went out among all these real people, so lively and energetic, while
she was still little more than a dream-woman, possessed by one thought,
moving along, she knew not how, with a sense of helplessness and
unprotectedness, which made the novelty all the more sensible to her.
She went on for what seemed to be a long time, following mechanically
the line of the pavement, without knowing what she was doing, along the
long course of Park Lane, and then into the cheerful bustle of
Piccadilly, where, with a sense of morning ease and leisure, not like
the artificiality of the afternoon, so many people were coming and
going, all occupied in business of their own, though so different from
the bustle of more