ught," Rachel said, her face answering his last question,
if her words did not, "that you would come to me--that you would be
with me altogether----"

"I have no doubt that you would find that I came to you very often,"
said Sir William, with again a desolate sense of having no definite
reason for being anywhere.

There was a pause before he said, "Then I'll tell him to come and see
me, and perhaps he can see you afterwards."

"Oh," said Rachel, shrinking, "it is not possible yet."

"Well," said Sir William, "I will tell him so. We will explain to him
that, since he is willing to wait, for the moment he must wait."

CHAPTER VIII

And Rendel waited--through the autumn, through the winter--but not
without seeing Rachel again. On the contrary, every week that passed
during that time was bringing him nearer to his goal. After the first
visit was over, that first meeting under the now maimed and altered
conditions of life, the insensible relief afforded to both father and
daughter by his companionship, his unselfish devotion and helpfulness,
his unfailing readiness to be a companion to Sir William, to come and
play chess with him, or to sit up and do intricate patiences through the
small hours of the morning, all this gradually made him insensibly slide
into the position of a son of the house. And Rachel, convinced that she
was doing the best thing for her father and admitting in her secret
heart that for herself she was doing the thing that of all others would
make her happy, yielded at last. They were married in April, and went
away for a fortnight to a shooting-box lent them by Lord Stamfordham in
the West of Scotland, leaving Sir William for the first time alone in
the big, empty house. It was with many, many misgivings that Rachel had
agreed to go; but her father had insisted on her doing so. He had
vaguely thought that perhaps it would be a relief to him to be alone,
but he found the solitude unbearable. Those acquaintances of Gore's who
saw him at the club expressed in suitably tempered tones their pleasure
at seeing him again, and, thinking he would rather be left alone,
discreetly refrained from thrusting their society upon him when in
reality he most needed it, remarking to one another that poor old Gore
had gone to pieces dreadfully since his wife died. A great many people
knew him, and liked him well enough, but he had no intimate friends.
Pateley occasionally dropped in; but Pateley was too full of