begun to talk to herself aloud, a consequence of over-stress on a
brain never used to anxious thought; she went about the upper rooms
of the house muttering 'Dick's an honest man.' To keep moving seemed
a necessity to her; the chair in the dim corner of the dining-room
she now scarcely ever occupied, and the wonted employment of her
fingers was in abeyance. She spent most of her day in the kitchen;
already two servants had left because they could not endure her
fidgety supervision. She was growing suspicious of every one; Alice
had to listen ten times a day to complaints of dishonesty in the
domestics or the tradespeople; the old woman kept as keen a watch
over petty expenditure as if poverty had still to be guarded
against. And she was constantly visiting the Vines; she would rise
at small hours to get her house-work done, so as to be able to spend
the afternoon in Wilton Square. That, in truth, was still her home;
the new house could never be to her what the old was; she was a
stranger amid the new furniture, and sighed with relief as soon as
her eyes rested on the familiar chairs and tables which had been her
household gods through a lifetime.

'Arry had given comparatively little trouble of late; beyond an
occasional return home an hour or so after midnight, his proceedings
seemed to be perfectly regular. He saw a good deal of Mr. Keene,
who, as Alice gathered from various remarks in Richard's letters,
exercised over him a sort of tutorage. It was singular how
completely Richard seemed to have changed in his judgment of Mr.
Keene. 'His connection with newspapers makes him very useful,' said
one letter. 'Be as friendly with him as you like; I trust to your
good sense and understanding of your own interest to draw the line.'
When at the house Mr. Keene was profoundly respectful; his position
at such times was singular, for as often as not Alice had to