Of course she had sent her husband money. Only Mears knew how much. Mears acted as intermediary, conducted the correspondence; and in despatching the doles, whether much or little, he rarely failed to reiterate the proviso that the recipient was not to set foot in England. That was the irrepealable condition under which aid from time to time was granted.

But of late it had become plain that no attempt would be made to set the prohibition at defiance: Mr. Marsden would never revisit his native land. During the last year his wife had written to him twice or thrice, supplementing the communications of Mears with extra bounties and some hopeful, cheering words. Mr. Marsden was begged to employ these additional drafts in defraying the expenses of illness, to take care of himself, and to fight against desponding thoughts.

Now, one summer morning, when she entered her room at Bence's, Mr. Mears stood by a window waiting for her arrival.

"Good morning, Mr. Mears;" and she looked at his solemn face. "Anything out of the way?"

"Yes. Some news from California."

"Ah!" And she pointed to the letter in his hand. "Is it the news that we had reason to expect?"

"Yes.... It's all over;" and Mr. Mears placed a chair for her, near the newspaper table.

She sat down, took the letter, spread it open on the table; and, shading her eyes with a hand, began to read it.

"Mr. Mears!" She spoke without looking up. "I shall do no work to-day. Tell them all that I cannot see them."

In the lofty corridor the doors of the managers' rooms were opening; the chieftains were bringing their reports; secretaries and clerks were silently assembling.

Mr. Mears left the room, whisperingly dismissed everybody; and with closed lips and noiseless footsteps, the little crowd dispersed.

When he returned to the room she spoke to him again, still without raising her eyes.

"The car has gone home, of course. Please telephone to the house, and tell them to send it back for me at once."

He transmitted her order, and then went to a window and looked down into the court-yard.

"Mr. Mears!"

She had finished the letter, and was carefully folding it. "There. You had better keep it—with the other papers.... Sit down, please. Stay with me till the car comes."

Mr. Mears sat down, put the folded letter in his pocket, but did not speak. He noticed that her eyes were free from moisture, and her quiet voice betrayed no emotion of any sort.

"Ah, well;" and she gave a little sigh. "He wanted for nothing. His friend says so explicitly.... Mr. Mears, she cannot have been a bad woman—according to her lights. You see, she has stuck to him faithfully."

Then, after a long pause, she spoke very kindly of the dead man; and Mears noticed the pitying tenderness that had come into her voice. But it could not have been called emotion: it was a benign, comprehensive pity, a ready sympathy for weakness and misfortune, and no deep disturbance of personal feeling. Mears had heard her talk in just such a tone when she had been told about the sad end of a total stranger.

"Poor fellow! A wasted life, Mr. Mears!... And he had many good points. He was naturally a worker. Considerable capacity—he seemed to promise great things in the beginning.... You know, you thought well of him at first."

"At first," said Mears. "I admit it. He was a good salesman."

"He was a grand salesman, Mr. Mears.... I have never met a better one."

Enid was waiting for her at the white gates, when the car brought her home.

"Mother dear, is anything wrong? Are you ill?"

The car had stopped; and Enid, clambering on the step, showed a white, scared face.

"No, my dear. I am quite all right. I'll get out here, and stroll in the garden with you.... My sweet Enid, did the message frighten you?"

"Yes, dreadfully."

"It was inconsiderate of me not to say I wasn't ill.... I am taking the day off. That is all."

"But what has happened? Something has upset you. I can see it in your face."

Then, as they walked slowly to and fro along a terrace between bright and perfumed flowers, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson quietly told her daughter the news.

"I am a widow, Enid dear.... No, it did not upset me. Mr. Mears and I were both prepared to hear it.... But of course it takes one back into the past; it sets one thinking—and I felt at once that I ought not to attend to ordinary business, that it would be only proper to take the day off....

"And I think, Enid, that henceforth I shall call myself Mrs. Thompson—plain Mrs. Thompson, dropping the other name altogether."... She had paused on the path, to pick a sprig of verbena; and she gently crushed a thin leaf, and inhaled its perfume. "Yes, dear. I always liked the old name best. But I felt that while he was living, it might seem unkind, and in bad taste, if I altogether refused to bear his name. Now, however, it cannot matter;" and she opened her hand and let the crushed leaf fall. "He has gone. And he is quite forgotten. There is nobody who can think it unkind if his name dies, too."