thinking, as often in these last days--thinking about her loneliness, a
condition exaggerated and underlined by her to make an impression on
him. She did not seem to dwell upon it. She was far too clever for that.
But somehow it was always cropping up. When he paid her a visit, she was
scarcely ever out. And if she was in, she was invariably alone.
Sometimes she wore a hat and said she had just come in. Sometimes, when
he left her, she would say she was going out. But always the impression
created was of a very lonely woman, with no engagements and apparently
no friends, who passed the long summer days in solitude,
playing--generally "Gerontius"--upon the little rosewood piano, or
reading "The Scarlet Letter," or some sad or high-minded book. There was
no pose apparent in all this. Indeed, sometimes Mrs. Chepstow seemed
slightly confused, almost ashamed, at being so unoccupied, so unclaimed
by any society or any bright engagements. And more than once Nigel
suspected her of telling him white lies when she spoke of dining out
with "people" in the evening, or of joining a "party" for the play. For
he noticed that when she made such statements it was generally after
some remark, some little incident, which had indicated his pity. And he
divined the pride of a well-bred woman stirring within her, the desire
to conceal or to make the least of her unfortunate situation. Far from
posing to gain his pity, he believed her to be "playing up," if
possible, to avoid it. And this belief, not unnaturally, rendered it far
more keen. So he fell in with her intention.

Once or twice when, in mental colloquies, he played, as he supposed, the
part of the ordinary man of the world arguing out the question with the
impulsive, chivalrous man, he said, and insisted strongly, that a woman
such as Mrs. Chepstow, justifiably famous for beauty and scandalously
famous for very different reasons, if she sought to deceive--and of
course the man of the world thought such women compact of