Her thoughts were centered upon what, to her, was more than these.
When night was gathering over the scene, her maid entered softly.

Mrs.
Taine dismissed the woman with a word, telling her not to return until she rang.

Leaving the window, after drawing the shades close, she paced the now lighted room, in troubled uneasiness of mind.

Here and there, she paused to touch or handle some familiar object--a photograph in a silver frame, a book on the carved table, the trifles on her open desk, or an ornamental vase on the mantle--then moved restlessly away to continue her aimless exercise.

When the silence was rudely broken by the sound of a knock at her door, she stood still--a look of anger marring the well-schooled beauty of her features.
The knock was repeated.
With an exclamation of impatient annoyance, she crossed the room, and flung open the door.
Without leave or apology, her husband entered; and, as he did so, was seized by a paroxysm of coughing that sent him reeling, gasping and breathless, to the nearest chair.
Mrs.Taine stood watching her husband coldly, with a curious, speculative expression on her face that she made no attempt to hide.