s the steward's wife might in
after-years--perhaps, at once--be subjected to indignity and cruelty on
account of an old lover's interference now.

Yes, perhaps the announcement would come most properly and safely for
her from her brother Owen, the time of whose arrival had almost expired.

But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage were quite
deserted. He and his errand had as completely died from the minds of
the attendants as if they had never been. There was absolutely nothing
between him and Cytherea's presence. Reason was powerless now; he must
see her--right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston--offensive to her
brother or no. His lips must be the first to tell the alarming story to
her. Who loved her as he! He went back lightly through the hall, up the
stairs, two at a time, and followed the corridor till he came to the
door numbered thirteen.

He knocked softly: nobody answered.

There was no time to lose if he would speak to Cytherea before Manston
came. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. The lamp on the
table burned low, and showed writing materials open beside it; the chief
light came from the fire, the direct rays of which were obscured by a
sweet familiar outline of head and shoulders--still as precious to him
as ever.

7. A QUARTER-PAST EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.

There is an attitude--approximatively called pensive--in which the soul
of a human being, and especially of a woman, dominates outwardly and
expresses its presence so strongly, that the intangible essence seems
more apparent than the body itself. This was Cytherea's expression now.
What old days and sunny eves at Budmouth Bay was she picturing? Her
reverie had caused her not to notice his knock.

'Cytherea!' he said softly.

She let drop her hand, and turned her head, evidently thinking that her
visitor could be no other than Manston, yet puzzled at the voice.

There was no preface on Springrove's tongue; he forgot his
position--hers--that he had come to ask quietly if Manston had other
proofs of being a widower--everything--and jumped to a conclusion.

'You are not his wife, Cytherea--come away, he has a wife living!' he
cried in an agitated whisper. 'Owen will be here directly.'

She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of them
afterwards. 'Not his wife? O, what is it--what--who is living?' She
awoke by degrees. 'What must I do? Edward, it is you! Why did you come?
Where is Owen?'

'What has