h had desired, yet when it came it found them
tongue-tied and helpless.

Bessy was the first to speak. "When did you get here? You never wrote me
you were coming!"

Amherst advanced toward her, holding out his hand. "No; you must forgive
me. I have been very busy," he said.

Always the same excuse! The same thrusting at her of the hateful fact
that Westmore came first, and that she must put up with whatever was
left of his time and thoughts!

"You are always too busy to let me hear from you," she said coldly, and
the hand which had sprung toward his fell back to her side.

Even then, if he had only said frankly: "It was too difficult--I didn't
know how," the note of truth would have reached and moved her; but he
had striven for the tone of ease and self-restraint that was habitual
among her friends, and as usual his attempt had been a failure.

"I am sorry--I'm a bad hand at writing," he rejoined; and his evil
genius prompted him to add: "I hope my coming is not inconvenient?"

The colour rose to Bessy's face. "Of course not. But it must seem rather
odd to our visitors that I should know so little of your plans."

At this he humbled himself still farther. "I know I don't think enough
about appearances--I'll try to do better the next time."

Appearances! He spoke as if she had been reproaching him for a breach of
etiquette...it never occurred to him that the cry came from her
humiliated heart! The tide of warmth that always enveloped her in his
presence was receding, and in its place a chill fluid seemed to creep up
slowly to her throat and lips.

In Amherst, meanwhile, the opposite process was taking place. His wife
was still to him the most beautiful woman in the world, or rather,
perhaps, the only woman to whose beauty his eyes had been opened. That
beauty could never again penetrate to his heart, but it still touched
his senses, not with passion but with a caressing kindliness, such as
one might feel for the bright movements of a bird or a kitten. It seemed
to plead with him not to ask of her more than she could give--to be
content with the outward grace and not seek in it an inner meaning. He
moved toward her again, and took her passive hands in his.

"You look tired. Why do you ride so late?"

"Oh, I just wanted to give Impulse a gallop. I hadn't time to take her
out earlier, and if I let the grooms exercise her they'll spoil her
mouth."

Amherst frowned. "You ought not to ride that mare alone at nig