"
"Only name it," he cried, earnestly.
"Come and dine with me to-night in Thistle Grove."
"Is that all? I accept with enthusiasm."
"Only a small party: four at the most. You know I am still in deepest
mourning. My poor dear general--" she dropped her voice and her
eyes.
"Ah!" said Mr. Faulks, sympathetically; "you have known great sorrows.
But you must not brood, dear lady: we should struggle with grief." He
took her hand, and looked at her in a kindly, pitying way.
The moment was ill-timed for interruption, but the blame was Sir
Humphrey's, who now sent the messenger with a fresh and more imperious
summons for the attendance of Mr. Faulks.
He got up hurriedly, nervously, saying--
"I must leave you, dear lady; there are matters of great urgency to be
dealt with to-day."
"No apologies: it's my fault for trespassing here. I will run away.
To-night--do not forget me, at eight," and Mrs. Wilders took her
departure.
The little house in Thistle Grove wore its most smiling aspect at
evening, with its soft-shaded lamps, pretty hangings, and quantities
of variegated, sweet-smelling flowers; it was radiant with light, full
of perfume, bright in colour.
Mrs. Wilders's guests were three--Mrs. Jones, a staid, hard-featured,
middle-aged lady in deep black, an officer's widow like herself, as
she explained, who lived a few doors down, and was an acquaintance of
the last month or two, Mr.
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