nce as part,
and the worst part, of the separation that was his punishment. Many
mixed feelings, shame and passion, delicacy and pride restrained him
from asking Jewdwine any question. Even if Jewdwine had not told him
as much, he would have known that his acquaintance with Jewdwine's
affairs would not involve acquaintance with Jewdwine's family. He had
absolutely nothing to hope for from that connection.

And yet he hoped. The probabilities were that if Lucia did not make
her home with her cousins, she would at any rate stay with them the
greater part of the year. He was always walking up to Hampstead Heath
on the chance of some day seeing her there. Sometimes he would pass by
the front of Jewdwine's beautiful old brown house, and glance quickly
through the delicate iron gate and up at the windows. But she was
never there. Sometimes he would sit for hours on one of the seats
under the elm tree at the back. There was a high walk there
overlooking the West Heath and shaded by the elms and by Jewdwine's
garden wall. The wall had a door in it that might some day open and
let out the thing he longed for. Only it never did. There was nothing
to hope for from Jewdwine's house.

At last his longing became intolerable, and one day, in the office, he
made up his mind to approach Jewdwine himself. He had been telling him
about the apparent check in the career of the Harden library, when he
saw his opportunity and took it.

"By the way, can you tell me where your cousin is now?"

"Miss Harden," said Jewdwine coldly, "is in Germany with Miss
Palliser." He added, as if he evidently felt that some explanation was
necessary (not on Rickman's account, but on his own), "She was to have
come to us, but we were obliged to give her up to Miss Palliser, who
is living alone."

"Alone?"

"Yes. Mrs. Palliser is dead."

Rickman turned abruptly away to the window and stared into the street
below. Jewdwine from his seat by the table looked after him
thoughtfully. He would have given a good deal to know what was implied
in the sudden turning of Rickman's back. What on earth did it matter
to Rickman if old Mrs. Palliser was dead or alive? What could he be
thinking of?

He was thinking of Kitty who had shown him kindness, of Kitty and the
pleasant jests with which she used to cover his embarrassment; of
Kitty who had understood him at the last. It was impossible not to
feel some grief for the grief of Lucia's friend; but he had no
busine