'She is gone to her aunt's, to spend the evening,' said Mr.
Swancourt, thrusting his head out of his study door, and letting
the light of his candles stream upon Elfride's face--less
revealing than, as it seemed to herself, creating the blush of
uneasy perplexity that was burning upon her cheek.

'I didn't know you were indoors, papa,' she said with surprise.
'Surely no light was shining from the window when I was on the
lawn?' and she looked and saw that the shutters were still open.

'Oh yes, I am in,' he said indifferently. 'What did you want
Unity for? I think she laid supper before she went out.'

'Did she?--I have not been to see--I didn't want her for that.'

Elfride scarcely knew, now that a definite reason was required,
what that reason was. Her mind for a moment strayed to another
subject, unimportant as it seemed. The red ember of a match was
lying inside the fender, which explained that why she had seen no
rays from the window was because the candles had only just been
lighted.

'I'll come directly,' said the vicar. 'I thought you were out
somewhere with Mr. Smith.'

Even the inexperienced Elfride could not help thinking that her
father must be wonderfully blind if he failed to perceive what was
the nascent consequence of herself and Stephen being so
unceremoniously left together; wonderfully careless, if he saw it