he day he always gave to Beatrice. But
he durst not think of that now.

'On Sunday there are so many people about,' he continued. 'Will you come
here again on Monday afternoon?'

Emily promised to do so.

'I will write to you to-morrow, and again a letter for Tuesday, giving
you the last directions. But I may have to see you on Tuesday. May I
call at your lodgings?'

'If you need to. Surely you may? My--my husband?'

'My wife!'

They walked to the hotel, and thence, when dusk was falling, started to
drive homewards. They stopped at the end of Emily's street, and Wilfrid
walked with her to the door.

'Till Monday afternoon,' he said, grasping her hand as if he clung to it
in fear.

Then he found another vehicle. It was dark when he reached home.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE UNEXPECTED

Late in the evening Wilfrid received a visit from his father. Mr. Athel
had dined with his sister, and subsequently accompanied his nieces to a
concert. Beatrice should have sung, but had broken her engagement on the
plea of ill-health.

'Been at home all the evening?' Mr. Athel began by asking.

'I got home late,' Wilfrid answered, rising from his chair.

His father had something to say which cost him hesitation. He walked
about with his hands between the tails of his coat.

'Seen Beatrice lately?' he inquired at length.

'No; not since last Monday.'

'I'm afraid she isn't well. She didn't sing to-night. Didn't dine with
us either.'

Wilfrid kept silence.

'Something wrong?' was his father's next question.

'Yes, there is.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

Wilfrid went to the fireplace and leaned his arm upon the mantelpiece.
As he did not seem disposed to speak, his father continued--

'Nothing serious, I hope?'

'Yes; something serious.'

'You don't mean that? Anything you can talk about?'

'I'm afraid not. I shall go and see Beatrice as usual tomorrow. I may be
at liberty to tell you after that, though probably not for a few days.'

Mr. Athel looked annoyed.

'I hope this is not of your doing,' he said. 'They tell me the girl is
causing them a good deal of anxiety. For the last few days she has been
sitting alone, scarcely touching food, and refusing to speak to anyone.
If this goes on she will be ill.'

Wilfrid spoke hoarsely.

'I can't help it. I shall see her to-morrow.'

'All right,' observed his father, with the impatience which was his way
of meeting disorders in this admirable universe. 'Your