It was no longer surmise and suspicion--there was some one else.

Some one to whom she owed--love.

And he had caused her to forget him! And this thought made him stop his chain of reasoning abruptly.

For what did that mean?
Had he then, after all, somehow made her feel--made her think of him?
Was this the secret in her strange mysterious face that drew him and puzzled him always?
Was there some war going on in her heart?
But the comforting idea which he had momentarily obtained from that inference of her words went from him as he pondered, for nothing proved that her thoughts of him had been of love.
So, alternately trying to reason the thing out, and growing wild with passion and suspicion and pain, he at last went back to the house expecting he would have to go through the ordeal of luncheon alone; but as the silver gong sounded she came slowly down the stairs.
And except that she was very pale and blue circles surrounded her heavy eyes, her face wore a mask, and she was perfectly calm.
She made no apology, nor allusion to her outburst; she treated the incident as though it had never been! She held a letter in her hand, which had come by the second post while they were out.

It was written by her uncle from London, the night before, and contained his joyous news.
Tristram looked at her and was again dumbfounded.