afternoon-"

The Squire said suddenly:

"He's not ill, is he?"

"No, not ill. Oh, Horace, don't you understand? I was afraid he might do
something rash. He was so--miserable."

The Squire began to walk up and down.

"Is he is he safe now?" he burst out.

Mrs. Pendyce sat down rather suddenly in the nearest chair.

"Yes," she said with difficulty, "I--I think so."

"Think! What's the good of that? What----Are you feeling faint,
Margery?"

Mrs. Pendyce, who had closed her eyes, said:

"No dear, it's all right."

Mr. Pendyce came close, and since air and quiet were essential to her at
that moment, he bent over and tried by every means in his power to rouse
her; and she, who longed to be let alone, sympathised with him, for she
knew that it was natural that he should do this. In spite of his efforts
the feeling of faintness passed, and, taking his hand, she stroked it
gratefully.

"What is to be done now, Horace?"

"Done!" cried the Squire. "Good God! how should I know? Here you are in
this state, all because of that d---d fellow Bellew and his d---d wife!
What you want is some dinner."

So saying, he put his arm around her, and half leading, half carrying,
took her to her room.

They did not talk much at dinner, and of indifferent things, of Mrs.
Barter, Peacock, the roses, and Beldame's hock. Only once they came
too near to that which instinct told them to avoid, for the Squire said
suddenly:

"I suppose you saw that woman?"

And Mrs. Pendyce murmured:

"Yes."

She soon went to her room, and had barely got into bed when he appeared,
saying as though ashamed:

"I'm very early."

She lay awake, and every now and then the Squire would ask her, "Are you
asleep, Margery?" hoping that she might have dropped off, for he himself
could not sleep. And she knew that he meant to be nice to her, and
she knew, too, that as he lay awake, turning from side to side, he was
thinking like herself: 'What's to be done next?' And that his fancy,
too, was haunted by a ghost, high-shouldered, with little burning eyes,
red hair, and white freckled face. For, save that George was miserable,
nothing was altered, and the cloud of vengeance still hung over Worsted
Skeynes. Like some weary lesson she rehearsed her thoughts: 'Now Horace
can answer that letter of Captain Bellow's, can tell him that George
will not--indeed, cannot--see her again. He must answer it. But will
he?'

She groped after the secret springs of her