"My lady has gone out," the footman answers. "She went half an hour
ago. She had a book with her, and she went in the direction of the
laurel walk."

"I will go in search of her," Sir Victor says, taking his hat; "let
dinner wait until our return."

Ethel has gone, because she cannot meet Inez Catheron again, never
again break bread at the same board with her pitiless enemy. She cried
herself quietly to sleep last night; her head aches with a dull,
sickening pain to-day. To be home once more--to be back in the cosy,
common-place Russell square lodgings! If it were not for baby she
feels as though she would like to run away, from Sir Victor and all,
anywhere that Inez Catheron's black eyes and derisive smile could
never come.

The September twilight, sparkling with frosty-looking stars, is
settling down over the trees. The great house looms up, big, sombre,
stately, a home to be proud of, yet Ethel shudders as she looks at it.
The only miserable days of her life have been spent beneath its roof;
she will hate it before long. Her very love for her husband seems to
die out in bitter contempt, as she thinks of last night, when he stood
by and heard his cousin's sneering insult. The gloaming is chilly, she
draws her shawl closer around her, and walks slowly up and down. Slow,
miserable tears trickle down her cheeks as she walks. She feels so
utterly alone, so utterly forlorn, so utterly at the mercy of this
merciless woman.

"Oh!" she says, with a passionate sob, and unconsciously aloud,
"_why_ did I ever marry him?"