interest and desire in all that concerned Miss Holland.
Thus she found herself positively looking forward to Miss Holland's
coming, actually absorbed in thinking of her, wondering where she was,
and what she was doing when she was not there.

It ended in wonder; for Brodrick was the only person who could have
informed her, and he had grown curiously reticent on the subject of Jane
Holland. He would say that she was coming, or that she was not coming,
on such or such a day. That was all. Her coming on some day or the other
was a thing that Gertrude had now to take for granted. She tried to
discuss it eagerly with Brodrick; she dwelt on it with almost
affectionate solicitude; you would have said that Brodrick could not
have desired it more than she did.

In the last two weeks Gertrude found something ominous in Brodrick's
silence and sulkiness. And on this Sunday, the day of Jane's departure,
she was no longer able to ignore their significance. Very soon he would
come to her and tell her that he did not want her; that she must go;
that she must make room for Miss Holland.

That night, after Brodrick had returned from taking Jane Holland home,
his secretary came to him in the library. She found him standing by the
writing-table, looking intently at something which he held in his hand,
something which, as Gertrude appeared to him, he thrust hastily into a
drawer.

"May I speak to you a moment?" she said.

"Certainly."

He turned, patient and polite, prepared to deal, as he had dealt before,
with some illusory embarrassment of Gertrude's.

"You are not pleased with me," she said, forcing the naked statement
through hard lips straight drawn.

"What makes you think so?"

"Your manner has been different."

"Then what you mean is that you are not pleased with my manner. My
manner is unfortunate."

He was almost oppressively patient and polite.

"Would it not be better," she said, "for me to go?"

"Certainly not. Unless you want to."

"I don't say that I want to. I say it might be better."

Still, with laborious, weary patience, he protested. He was entirely,
absolutely satisfied. He had never dreamed of her going. The idea was
preposterous, and it was her own idea, not his.

She looked at him steadily, with eyes prepared to draw truth from him by
torture.

"And there is no reason?" she said. "You can think of no reason why it
would be better for me to go?"

He hesitated a perceptible instant before he ans