"Now, if I give you this, Mrs. Wilson, I do hope to have a better
account"----

Her admonitions were cut short, and with difficulty she managed to
obtain hearing for a word or two of what was meant for grave counsel
whilst taking leave of her visitor. Mrs. Wilson, a gleam in her red
eyes, vanished up the area steps, and left Lilian to meditate on the
interview.

The evening passed on, and her solitude was undisturbed. When
dinner-time came, she sat down to the wing of a cold chicken and a
thimbleful of claret much diluted; the repast was laid out with
perfection of neatness, and at its conclusion she cleared the table
like the handiest of parlour-maids. Whatever she did was done
gracefully; she loved order, and when alone was no less scrupulous
in satisfying her idea of the becoming than when her actions were
all observed.

After dinner, she played a little on the piano. Here, as over her
book in the afternoon, the absent fit came upon her. Her fingers had
rested idly on the keyboard for some minutes, when they began to
touch solemn chords, and at length there sounded the first notes of
a homely strain, one of the most familiar of the Church's hymns. It
ceased abruptly; Lilian rose and went to another part of the room.

A few minutes later her ear caught the sound for which she was now
waiting--that of a latch-key at the front door. She stepped
quickly out into the passage, where the lamp-light fell upon a tall
and robust man with dark, comely, bearded visage.