Once, and once only, he had seen Mrs. Bethune. Those other times she
had been confined to her room with neuralgia (what should we all do
without neuralgia?), or with letters to write, or something,
_any_thing else.

That one time she came out of the library at the very moment he had
arrived. They met in the hall, and it was quite impossible to avoid
seeing him. She came forward with a charming air.

"Is it you? How long since we have met!" said she. Her tone was
evenness itself; she was smiling brightly. If she was pale, he could
not see it in the darkening twilight. "How troublesome these
elections are! I see you have been staying with the Montgomerys; I
do hope he will get in. But Conservatives are nowhere nowadays.
Truth lies buried in a well. That's a good old saying." She nodded
to him and went up a step or two of the stairs, then looked back.
"Don't stay away from The Place on my account," said she, with
rather an amused smile. "I like to have you here. And see how badly
you are behaving to the beloved one!"

She smiled again, with even more amusement than before, and
continued her graceful way up the stairs. He had turned away sore at
heart. She had not even thought it worth her while to make an appeal
to him. If she had! He told himself that even then, if she had said
but one word, he would have thrown up everything, even his _honour_,
and gone with her to the ends of the earth. But she had not said
that word--she had not cared--_sufficiently_.