We left Hilda stretched on her face sobbing. But the fit did not last
long. She rose, and flung open the window; she seemed stifled for want
of air. Then she sat down to think what she should do. Vanish and
leave no trace? No; not yet. Appear and claim her place? No; not yet.
The time was not ripe for choice between these two extremes. Upbraid
Philip with his faithlessness? No; not without proofs. What did that
hateful letter say? "Wait and watch;" yes, that was what she would do.
But she could not wait here; she felt as though she must go somewhere,
get some change of scene, or she should break down. She had heard Mrs.
Jacobs speak of a village not more than two hours from London that a
convalescent lodger of hers had visited and found charming. She would
go there for a week, and watch the spring cast her mantle over the
earth, and listen to the laughter of the brooks, and try to forget her
burning love and jealousy, and just for that one week be happy as she
was when, as a little girl, she roamed all day through the woods of
her native Germany. Alas! she forgot that it is the heart and not the
scene that makes happiness.

That evening she wrote a note to her husband, saying that she felt
that change of air was necessary for her, and that she was going out
of London for a few days, to some quiet place, from whence she would
write to him. He must not, however, expect many letters, as she wanted
complete rest.

On the following morning she went; and, if the sweet spring air did
not bring peace to her mind, at any rate, it to a very great extent
set up her in strength. She wrote but one letter during her absence,
and that was to say that she should be back in London by midday on the
first of May. This letter reached Philip on the morning of the great
dinner-party, and was either accidentally or on purpose sent without