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“Are the children well?”

“Quite well. I saw them less than a fortnight ago—and Mr. Holmes too. He was out at the hunt.”

“He’s able to enjoy himself, then,” remarked Vera, dryly.

“He went more for the children’s sake than his own, I imagine. I don’t think if you could see him you’d talk about his ‘enjoying himself.’ But every one says he’s been very brave.”

Vera made no comment on this. She did not refer again either to her husband or the children. She still held the letter to Waring in her hand.

“So this is Gerald’s address in Wellington,” she said.

“Yes.”

Was she going to make another effort to see the man who had proved faithless? Ann wondered. But she could not ask. And she could not bring herself to mention the case again. Nothing she could say would be likely to influence Vera—now. She was unable to read the older woman’s thoughts—they were as inscrutable as ever. Had the knowledge she had gained—the absolute certainty that Waring was no longer her lover—ended the despairing conflict of her mind? Ann couldn’t tell. She knew herself that certainty might in some cases be easier to bear than heart-breaking suspense.

“I landed in Wellington. I stayed there for one night before coming on to Hawkeston yesterday. And I didn’t even know that I was near him—could have seen him and spoken to him.”

Vera seemed not so much to be addressing Ann, as thinking aloud. Her voice was low and hard. Did she