Mrs. Linley's chair happened to be near one of the windows, which
commanded a view of the drive leading to the main entrance of the
house. A carriage had just arrived bringing holiday travelers to
visit that part of Mount Morven which was open to strangers. She
watched them as they got out, talking and laughing, and looking
about them. Still shrinking instinctively from the first doubt of
Herbert that had ever entered her mind, she found a refuge from
herself in watching the ordinary events of the day. One by one
the tourists disappeared under the portico of the front door. The
empty carriage was driven away next, to water the horses at the
village inn. Solitude was all she could see from the windows;
silence, horrible silence, surrounded her out of doors and in.
The thoughts from which she recoiled forced their way back into
her mind; the narrative of the nursemaid's discovery became a
burden on her memory once more. She considered the circumstances.
In spite of herself, she considered the circumstances again. Her
husband and Sydney Westerfield together in the shrubbery--and
Sydney crying. Had Mrs. Presty's abominable suspicion of them
reached their ears? or?--No! that second possibility might be
estimated at its right value by any other woman; not by Herbert
Linley's wife.

She snatched up the newspaper, and fixed her eyes on it in the
hope of fixing her mind on it next. Obstinately, desperately, she
read without knowing what she was reading. The lines of print
were beginning to mingle and grow dim, when she was startled by
the sudden opening of the door. She looked round.

Her husband entered the room.