Mr. Clarence often spent twenty-four hours at North End looking after the interests of the firm, and eating and sleeping at the hotel.
Mr. Rockharrt came home every evening to dinner, but after dinner invariably shut himself up in his office and remained there until bedtime.
Cora's evenings were as solitary as her mornings. But a change was at hand.
One evening, on his return home, Mr. Rockharrt brought his own mail from the post office at North End.
After dinner, instead of retiring to his office as usual, he came into the drawing room and found Cora.
Dropping himself down in a large arm chair beside the round table, and drawing the moderator lamp nearer to him, he drew a letter from his breast pocket and said:
"My dear, I have a very interesting communication here from Mrs. Stillwater—Miss Rose Flowers that was, you know."
"I know," said Cora, coldly, and wondering what was coming next.
"Poor child! She is a widow, thrown destitute upon the cold charities of the world again," he continued.
Cora said nothing. She was marveling to hear this harsh, cruel, relentless man speaking with so much pity, tenderness, and consideration for this adventuress.