'Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I had better go home after
what has happened? I will call to-morrow, and see if I can be of
any use to Miss Agnes. I am very sorry for her.' She stole away,
with her formal curtsey, her noiseless step, and her obstinate
resolution to take the gloomiest view of her husband's case.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room.
There was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he lingered in it.
It was something to be even near Agnes--to see the things belonging
to her that were scattered about the room. There, in the corner,
was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table by its side.
On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite
finished yet. The book she had been reading lay on the sofa,
with her tiny pencil-case in it to mark the place at which she
had left off. One after another, he looked at the objects that
reminded him of the woman whom he loved--took them up tenderly--
and laid them down again with a sigh. Ah, how far, how unattainably
far from him, she was still! 'She will never forget Montbarry,'
he thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. 'Not one of us
feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch--how she
loved him!'

In the street, as Henry closed the house-door, he was stopped
by a passing acquaintance--a wearisome inquisitive man--
doubly unwelcome to him, at that moment. 'Sad news, Westwick,
this about your brother. Rather an unexpected death, wasn't it?
We never heard at the club that Montbarry's lungs were weak.
What will the insurance offices do?'

Henry started; he had never thought of his brother's life insurance.