once. His restless habit of taking long rambles across the country had asserted itself with unusual strength, of late. He spent little time in the house. To-night he was later than usual. He came in fagged and mud-splashed. Christian was leaving the room as he entered it, but she stopped with her hand upon the door.
"We have had visitors," she said.
"Who?" he asked.
"Mr. Ffrench and his daughter. Mr. Ffrench wanted to see you. She did not come in, but sat in the carriage outside."
She shut the door and came back to the hearth.
"She despises us all!" she said. "She despises us all!"
He had flung himself into a chair and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head and looking gloomily before him.
"Sometimes I think she does," he said. "But what of that?"
She answered without looking at him.
"To be sure," she said. "What of that?"
After a little she spoke again.
"There is something I have thought of saying to you," she said. "It is this. I am happier here than I ever was before."
"I am very glad," he answered.
"I never thought of being happy," she went on, "or like other women in anything. I—I was different."
She said the words with perfect coldness.
"I was different."
"Different!" he echoed absently, and then checked himself. "Don't say that," he said. "Don't think it. It won't do. Why shouldn't you be as good and happy as any woman who ever lived?"
