kept alive in her that spirit of unreasonable hatred which she has felt
towards me."

"Unreasonable, you call it?" the woman almost shouted. "You, who came
home to her with the blood on your hands of the man whom, if only you
had kept away, she might one day have loved? Unreasonable, you call it?"

"I have finished what I had to say, Mrs. Unthank," Dominey declared. "I
am compelled by important business to leave here for two or three
days. On my return I shall embark upon the changes with which I have
acquainted you. In the meantime," he added, watching a curious change in
the woman's expression, "I have written this morning to Doctor Harrison,
asking him to come up this afternoon and to keep Lady Dominey under his
personal observation until my return."

She stood quite still, looking at him. Then she came a little nearer and
leaned forward, as though studying his face.

"Eleven years," she muttered, "do change many men, but I never knew a
man made out of a weakling."

"I have nothing more to say to you," Dominey replied, "except to let you
know that I am coming to see my wife in the space of a few minutes."

The motor-horn was already sounding below when Dominey was admitted to
his wife's apartment. She was dressed in a loose gown of a warm crimson
colour, and she had the air of one awaiting his arrival expectantly. The
passion of hatred seemed to have passed from her pale face and from the
depths of her strangely soft eyes. She held out her hands towards him.
Her brows were a little puckered. The disappointment of a child lurked
in her manner.

"You are going away?" she murmured.

"In a very few moments," he told her. "I have been waiting to see you
for an hour."

She made a grimace.

"It was Mrs. Unthank. I think that she hid my things on purpose. I was
so anxious to see you."

"I want to talk to you about Mrs. Unthank," he said. "Should you be very
unhappy if I sent her away and found some one younger and kinder to be
your companion?"

The idea seemed to be outside the bounds of her comprehension.

"Mrs. Unthank would never go," she declared. "She stays here to listen
to the voice. All night long sometimes she waits and listens, and it
doesn't come. Then she hears it, and she is rested."

"And you?" he asked.

"I am afraid," she confessed. "But then, you see, I am not very strong."

"You are not fond of Mrs. Unthank?" he enquired anxiously.

"I don't think so," she answered, in a perplexed