e forced her memory to
reconstitute in detail his last visit to Hillport, and all the
exacerbating scene of the funeral feast, in order that she might dwell
tenderly upon his gestures, his glances, his remarks, the inflections of
his voice. The eyes of her soul were ever beholding his form. Even at
breakfast, after the disappointment of the post, she would indulge in
ridiculous hopes that he might be abroad very early and would look in,
and not until bedtime did she cease to listen for his ring at the front
door. No chance of a meeting was too remote for her wild fancy. But she
dared not breathe his name, dared not even adumbrate an inquiry; and her
husband and daughters appeared to have entered into a compact not to
mention him. She did not take counsel with herself, examine herself,
demand from herself what was the significance of these symptoms; she
could not; she could only live from one moment to the next engrossed in
an eternal expectancy which instead of slackening became hourly more
intense and painful. Towards the close of the afternoon of the third
day, in the drawing-room, she whispered that something decisive must
happen soon, soon.... The bell rang; her ears caught the distant sound
for which they had so long waited. Shuddering, she thanked heaven that
she was alone. She could hear the opening and closing of the front door.
In three seconds Bessie would appear. She heard the knob of the
drawing-room door turn, and to hide her agitation she glanced aside at
the clock. It was a quarter to six. 'He will stay the evening,' she
thought.

'Mr. Dain,' Bessie proclaimed.

'Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Stanway? Stanway not come in yet, eh?' said the
stout lawyer, approaching her hurriedly with his fussy, awkward gait.

She could have laughed; but the visit was at any rate a distraction.

A few minutes later John arrived.

'Dain will stay for tea, Nora. Eh, Dain?' he said.

'Well--thanks,' was Dain's reply.

She asked herself, with sudden misgiving, what new thing was afoot.

After tea, the two men were left together at the table.

'Mother,' Ethel inquired eagerly, coming into the drawing-room, 'why are
father and Mr. Dain measuring the dining-room?'

'I don't know,' said Leonora. 'Are they?'

'Yes, Mr. Dain has got ever such a long tape.'

Leonora went into the kitchen and talked to the cook.

The next morning an idea occurred to her. Since the funeral, the girls
had been down to see Uncle Meshach each aft