she was in his presence.

'I hope I do not disturb you,' Hubert said with equal self-control. 'I
was about to address a letter to you before I left England. I did not
know that you were here. It is better, perhaps, to do my business by
word of mouth, if you will allow me.'

He was very courteous, but she could not distinguish a note in his voice
that meant more than courtesy. She prayed him to be seated, and herself
took a place on an ottoman. She was able very calmly to regard his face.
He leaned forward with his hands together and spoke with his eyes on
her.

'It is with regard to the legacy which is due to you under Mr. Mutimer's
will. You will remember that, as trustee, I have it in my power to make
over to you the capital sum which produces the annuity, if there should
be reason for doing so. I am about to leave England, perhaps for some
few years; I have let the Manor to some friends of mine on a twenty
years' lease. I think I should like to transfer the money to you before
I go. It is simpler, better. Will you let me do that, Mrs. Mutimer?'

His words chilled her. His voice seemed harder as he proceeded; it had
the ring of metal, of hard cash counted down.

What was his object? He wished to have done with her, to utterly abolish
all relations between them. It might well be that he was about to marry,
and someone abroad, someone who would not care to live in an English
country house. Why otherwise should he have let the Manor for so long a
period? She felt as she had done long ago, when she heard of that other
foreign woman. Cold as ice; not a spark of love in all her being.

She replied:

'Thank you. If you are willing to make that change, perhaps it will be
best.'

Hubert, his eyes still on her, imagined he saw pleasure in her face. She
might have a project for the use of the money, some Socialist scheme,
something perhaps to preserve the memory of her husband. He rose.

'In that case I will have a deed prepared at once, and you shall be
informed when it is ready for signature.'

He said to himself that she could not forgive his refusal of her request
that day in the wood.

They shook hands, Adela saying:

'You are still busy with art?'

'In my dilettante way,' he replied smiling.

Adela returned to her room, and there remained till the hour of dinner.
At the meal she was her ordinary self. Afterwards Mr. Westlake asked her
to read in proof an article about to appear in the 'Beacon'; she did so,