In the bedroom she arranged her toilet for the evening, and established order in every corner of the chamber.  Under the washstand lay the long row of Louis’ boots and shoes, each pair in stretchers.  She suddenly contrasted Julian’s heavy and arrogant dowdiness with the nice dandyism of Louis.  She could not help thinking that Julian would be a terrible person to live with.  This was the first thought favourable to Louis which had flitted through her mind for a long time.  She dismissed it.  Nothing in another man could be as terrible to live with as the defects of Louis.  She set herself—­she was obliged to set herself—­high above Louis.  The souvenir of the admiration of old Batchgrew and John’s Ernest, the touching humility before her of Julian Maldon, once more inflated her self-esteem—­it could not possibly have failed to do so.  She knew that she was an extraordinary woman, and a prize.

Invigorated and reassured by these reflections, she descended proudly to the ground floor.  And then, hesitating at the entrance to the parlour, she went into the kitchen and poked the fire.  As the fire was in excellent condition there was no reason for this act except her diffidence at the prospect of an encounter with Louis.  At last, having examined the tea-tray and invented other delays, she tightened her nerves and passed into the parlour to meet the man who seemed to be waiting for her like the danger of a catastrophe.  He was not there.  The parlour was empty.  His book was lying on the Chesterfield.

She felt relieved.  It was perhaps not very wise for him to have gone out for a walk, but if he chose to run risks, he was free to do so, for all she cared.  In the meantime the interview was postponed; hence her craven relief.  She lit the gas, but not by the same device as in Mrs. Maldon’s day; and then she saw an envelope lying on the table.  It was addressed in Louis’ handwriting to “Mrs. Louis Fores.”  She was alone in the house.  She felt sick.  Why should he write a letter to her and leave it there on the table?  She invented half a dozen harmless reasons for the letter, but none of them was the least convincing.  The mere aspect of the letter frightened her horribly.  There was no strength in her limbs.  She tore the envelope in a daze.

The letter ran—­

Dear Rachel,—­I have decided to leave England.  I do not know how long I shall be away.  I cannot and will not stand the life I have been leading with you this last week.  I had a perfectly satisfactory explanation to give you, but you have most rudely refused to listen to it.  So now I shall not give it.  I shall write you as to my plans.  I shall send you whatever money is necessary for you.  By the way, I put four hundred and fifty pounds away in my private drawer.  On looking for it this afternoon I see that you have taken it, without saying a word to me.  You must account to me for this money.  When you have done so we will settle how much I am to send you.  In the meantime you can draw from it for necessary expenses.

    Yours,