to recollect her thoughts. Hers was a fair, innocent, almost childish
face; and now, as a smile shot across it, there was something so sweet
and touching in the gladness it shed over that countenance, that you
could not have seen it without strong and almost painful interest. For
it was the gladness of a person who has known sorrow. Suddenly she
started up, and said: "No, then! I do not dream. He is come back--he
is here--all will be well again! Ha! it is his voice. Oh, bless him,
it is /his/ voice!" She paused, her finger on her lip, her face bent
down. A low and indistinct sound of voices reached her straining ear
through the thin door that divided her from Maltravers. She listened
intently, but she could not overhear the import. Her heart beat
violently. "He is not alone!" she murmured, mournfully. "I will wait
till the sound ceases, and then I will venture in!"

And what was the conversation carried on in that chamber? We must
return to Ernest. He was sitting in the same thoughtful posture when
Madame de Ventadour returned.

The Frenchwoman coloured when she found herself alone with Ernest, and
Ernest himself was not at his ease.

"Herbert has gone home to order the carriage, and Lord Doningdale has
disappeared, I scarce know whither. You do not, I trust, feel the worse
for the rain?"

"No," said Valerie.

"Shall you have any commands in London?" asked Maltravers; "I return to
town to-morrow."