"Oh, here you are, my dear. I thought you had gone out."
"I overheard I had a caller," she returned, taking her husband's hand and meeting his eyes unflinchingly. "I have n't had a chance to congratulate you, Mr. Emmet, upon your election, for we had to go South the next day on account of father's health. You caught me at the feminine trick of listening over the banisters."
The bishop was secretly annoyed at her cordiality, but still confident that he could trust his daughter to remember the difference between a common interest in charitable work and social equality.
"I leave Mr. Emmet in your hands," he said to her. "I have a little business at the Hall, and shall return for lunch."
And he went out, thinking how like a bewildered yokel the mayor seemed in the face of his daughter's graceful greeting, and imagining with relish his further discomfiture.
The door had closed behind him, and as yet Emmet had not said a word to his wife. Even now it was she who took the initiative.
"Let us go into the drawing-room," she suggested, turning and leading the way. He followed at once, brushing past Lena with cruel emphasis of manner. There she stood, or rather leaned against the wall, like one stricken. The jar of his passing seemed to release the tension of her limbs, and she sank down slowly, noiselessly, in a dead faint. Emmet neither heeded her anguish nor heard her soft fall upon the heavy rug. He hurriedly closed the drawing-room door to prevent his sweetheart from overhearing his interview with his wife, and strode into the centre of the room, where Felicity had turned at bay.
"What have you come for?" she asked in a low voice. Her face was as white as his own, but her self-control was greater.
"For you, Felicity," he answered. "You are my wife, and I 've come for you."
"I did n't know," she returned relentlessly, "but you had come to see that poor girl in the hall to whom you gave my ring. Looking from the stairs, I saw by her manner that she thought so too."