“Yes,” he said meditatively.  “It seems not a bad stove.”  And he held the spill till it had burnt to his finger-ends.  Then he extinguished the stove.

She said to herself: 

“He has burned the telegram on purpose.  But how cleverly he did it!  Ah!  That man!  There is none but him!”

She was disquieted about the telegram.  She feared it.  Her superstitiousness was awakened.  She thought of her apostasy from Catholicism to Protestantism.  She thought of a Holy Virgin angered.  And throughout the evening and throughout the night, amid her smiles and teasings and coaxings and caresses and ecstasies and all her accomplished, voluptuous girlishness, the image of a resentful Holy Virgin flitted before her.  Why should he burn a business telegram?  Also, was he not at intervals a little absent-minded?

Chapter 40

THE WINDOW

G.J. sat on the oilcloth-covered seat of the large overhanging open bay-window.  Below him was the river, tributary of the Severn; in front the Old Bridge, with an ancient street rising beyond, and above that the silhouette of the roofs of Wrikton surmounted by the spire of its vast church.  To the left was the weir, and the cliffs were there also, and the last tints of the sunset.

Somebody came into the coffee-room.  G.J. looked round, hoping that it might, after all, be Concepcion.  But it was Concepcion’s maid, Emily, an imitative young woman who seemed to have caught from her former employer the quality of strange, sinister provocativeness.

She paused a moment before speaking.  Her thin figure was somewhat indistinct in the twilight.

“Mrs. Smith wishes me to say that she will certainly be well enough to take you to the station in the morning, sir,” said she in her specious tones.  “But she hopes you will be able to stay till the afternoon train.”

“I shan’t.”  He shook his head.

“Very well, sir.”

And after another moment’s pause Emily, apparently with a challenging reluctance, receded through the shadows of the room and vanished.

G.J. was extremely depressed and somewhat indignant.  He gazed down bitterly at the water, following with his eye the incredibly long branches of the tree that from the height of the buttresses drooped perpendicularly into the water.  He had had an astounding week-end; and for having responded to Concepcion’s telegram, for having taken the telegram seriously, he had deserved what he got.  Thus he argued.

She had met him on the hot Saturday afternoon in a Ford car.  She did not look ill.  She looked as if she had fairly recovered from her acute neurasthenia.  She was smartly and carelessly dressed in a summer sporting costume, and had made a strong contrast to every other human being on the platform of the small provincial station.  The car drove not to the famous principal hotel, but to a small hotel just beyond