He went to her, and lifted her up, but she was like a child whom
passionate weeping has carried beyond the reach of words. He could say
nothing to console her, plead as he might, assume the blame, and swear
eternal fealty. One fearful, supreme fact possessed her, the wreck of
Chiltern breaking against the rocks, driven there by her . . . .

That she eventually grew calm again deserves to be set down as a tribute
to the organism of the human body.

That she was able to breathe, to move, to talk, to go through the
pretence of eating, was to her in the nature of a mild surprise. Life
went on, but it seemed to Honora in the hours following this scene that
it was life only. Of the ability to feel she was utterly bereft. Her
calmness must have been appalling: her own indifference to what might
happen now,--if she could have realized it,--even more so. And in the
afternoon, wandering about the house, she found herself in the
conservatory. It had been built on against the library, and sometimes, on
stormy afternoons, she had tea there with Hugh in the red-cushioned
chairs beside the trickling fountain, the flowers giving them an illusion
of summer.

Under ordinary circumstances the sound of wheels on the gravel would have
aroused her, for Hugh scarcely ever drove. And it was not until she
glanced through the open doors into the library that she knew that a
visitor had come to Highlawns. He stood beside the rack for the magazines
and reviews, somewhat nervously fingering a heavy watch charm, his large
silk hat bottom upward on the chair behind him. It was Mr. Israel
Simpson. She could see him plainly, and she was by no means hidden from
him by the leaves, and yet she did not move. He had come to see Hugh, she
understood; and she was probably going to stay where she was and listen.