CHAPTER XXVIII.
Tard oublie qui bien aime.
On this momentous afternoon Magdalen was sitting alone in the morning-room at Priesthope somewhat oppressed by an oncoming cold.

It had not yet reached the violent and weeping stage.

That was for to-morrow.

She, who was generally sympathetically dressed, was reluctantly enveloped in a wiry red crochet-work shawl which Bessie had made for her, and had laid resolutely upon her shoulders before she went out.
She tried to read, but her eyes ached, and after a time she laid down her book, and her mind went back, as it had a way of doing--to Fay.
Fay had told her as "a great secret" that she had accepted Wentworth.
She was so transfigured by happiness, so radiant, so absolutely unlike her former listless, colourless, carping self that Magdalen could only suppose that two shocks of joy had come simultaneously, the discovery that she loved her prim suitor, and the overwhelming relief to her tortured conscience of Michael's release.
Wentworth and Michael were still at Venice.

Michael, it seemed, had been prostrated by excitement, and had been too weak to travel immediately.
But they would be at Barford in a few days' time.
When Magdalen saw Fay entirely absorbed in trying on a succession of new summer hats, sent for from London in preparation for Wentworth's return, she asked herself for the twentieth time whether Fay had entirely forgotten her previous attraction for Michael, or that there might be some awkwardness in meeting her faithful lover and servant again, especially as the future wife of his brother.
Two years had certainly elapsed since that sudden flare-up of disastrous passion, and in two years much can be forgotten.