CHAPTER IV


On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little
drawing-room of her London lodgings, burning the letters which had
been written to her by Montbarry in the bygone time.

The Countess's maliciously smart description of her,
addressed to Doctor Wybrow, had not even hinted at the charm
that most distinguished Agnes--the artless expression of goodness
and purity which instantly attracted everyone who approached her.
She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair
complexion and her shy manner, it seemed only natural to speak of her
as 'a girl,' although she was now really advancing towards thirty
years of age. She lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her,
on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two.
There were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face,
as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw
the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them.
Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply
to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers,
she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again.
She had torn the last of the series, and was still shrinking
from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame,
when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'Master Henry,'--
meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly
declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of
the club.