him that he might soon by a second marriage take amends of his neighbours
for their disapprobation of his first. So pleasant was the thought that,
brooding upon it, he fell asleep.

He woke, looked, rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and stared.
A woman stood in front of him--one he had surely seen!--no, he had never
seen her anywhere! What an odd, inquiring, searching expression in her
two hideous black eyes! And what was that in her arms--something wrapt in
a blanket?

The message in the telegram recurred to him: there must have been a
child! The bundle must be the child! Confound the creature! What did it
want?

"Go away," he said; "this is not the nursery!"

"I thought you might like to look at the baby, sir!" the woman replied.

Sir Wilton stared at the blanket.

"It might comfort you, I thought!" she went on, with a look he felt to be
strange. Her eyes were hard and dry, red with recent tears, and glowing
with suppressed fire.

Sir Wilton was courteous to most women, especially such as had no claim
upon him, but cherished respect for none. It was odd therefore that he
should now feel embarrassed. From some cause the machinery of his
self-content had possibly got out of gear; anyhow no answer came ready.
He had not the smallest wish to see the child, but was yet, perhaps,
unwilling to appear brutal. In the meantime, the woman, with gentle,