She felt glad to be with this old familiar friend—glad to breathe the very air of Enderby after her six months’ exile.
“Your letter frightened me,” she said, when she was alone with the curate. “I came to look at my husband. I could not help coming.”
“Ah, dear Mrs. Greswold, if you could only come back for good—nothing else is of any use. Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“And you find him sadly changed?”
“Sadly changed. I wish you would try to rouse him—to interest him in farming—building—politics—anything. He is so clever; he ought to have so many resources.”
“For his mind, perhaps; but not for his heart. You are doing all you can to break that.”
Mildred turned her head aside with a weary movement, as of a creature at bay.
“Don’t talk about it. You cannot understand. You look up to Clement Cancellor, I think. You would respect his opinion.”
“Yes; he is a good man.”