She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to the door.

"Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you're too kind--really--yes--very happy, you
know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning."

And with these words he went out.

With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted back to the window. He
did not see her. His back was turned. He mounted his horse and gayly
cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel stood,--crouched in the
shadow of the window, staring after him, with her dark eyes burning
and glowing in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned away with
a bewildered look. Then she locked the door. Then she flung herself
upon the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and burst into a
convulsive passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts that
came now to that poor stricken girl as she lay there prostrate. She
had waited long, and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her
hope had been for this. It was for this that she had been praying--for
this that she had so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at last,
and he had gone; but for her he had certainly shown nothing save an
indifference as profound as it was inexplicable.

Ethel's excuse for not appearing at the dinner-table was a severe
headache. Her friends insisted on seeing her and ministering to her
sufferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer her by telling her
of Hawbury. Lady Dalrymple was full of him. She told all about his
family, his income, his habits, and his mode of life. She mentioned,
with much satisfaction, that he had made inquiries after Minnie, and
that she had promised to introduce him to her the next time he called.