His heart, she knew, was bent upon success at Grenoble, and one of the books which they had recently read together was a masterly treatise, by an Englishman, on the life-work of an American statesman.  The vast width of the country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, was stirred with politics:  a better era was coming, the pulse of the nation beating with renewed life; a stronger generation was arising to take the Republic into its own hands.  A campaign was in progress in the State, and twice her husband had gone some distance to hear the man who embodied the new ideas, and had come back moody and restless, like a warrior condemned to step aside.  Suppose his hopes were blighted—­what would happen?  Would the spirit of reckless adventure seize him again?  Would the wilds call him? or the city?  She did not dare to think.

It was not until two mornings later that Hugh tossed her across the breakfast table a pink envelope with a wide flap and rough edges.  Its sender had taken advantage of the law that permits one-cent stamps for local use.

“Who’s your friend, Honora?” he asked.

She tried to look calmly at the envelope that contained her fate.

“It’s probably a dressmaker’s advertisement,” she answered, and went on with the pretence of eating her breakfast.

“Or an invitation to dine with Mrs. Simpson,” he suggested, laughingly, as he rose.  “It’s just the stationery she would choose.”

Honora dropped her spoon in her egg-cup.  It instantly became evident, however, that his remark was casual and not serious, for he gathered up his mail and departed.  Her hand trembled a little as she opened the letter, and for a moment the large gold monogram of its sender danced before her eyes.

“Dear Madam, Permit me to thank you in the name of the Trustees of
the Grenoble Hospital for your generous contribution, and believe
me, Sincerely yours,

“MariaW. Simpson.”

The sheet fluttered to the floor.

When Sunday came, for the first time her courage failed her.  She had heard the wind complaining in the night, and the day dawned wild and wet.  She got so far as to put on a hat and veil and waterproof coat; Starling had opened the doors, and through the frame of the doorway, on the wet steps, she saw the footman in his long mackintosh, his umbrella raised to escort her to the carriage.  Then she halted, irresolute.  The impassive old butler stood on the sill, a silent witness, she knew, to the struggle going on within her.  It seemed ridiculous indeed to play out the comedy with him, who could have recited the lines.  And yet she turned to him.

“Starling, you may send the coachman back to the stable.”

“Very good, madam.”