On the afternoon of the next day Mr. Torkingham, who occasionally dropped
in to see St. Cleeve, called again as usual; after duly remarking on the
state of the weather, congratulating him on his sure though slow
improvement, and answering his inquiries about the comet, he said, 'You
have heard, I suppose, of what has happened to Lady Constantine?' 'No! Nothing serious?' 'Yes, it is serious.' The parson informed him of the death of Sir
Blount, and of the accidents which had hindered all knowledge of the
same,--accidents favoured by the estrangement of the pair and the
cessation of correspondence between them for some time.

His listener received the news with the concern of a friend, Lady
Constantine's aspect in his eyes depending but little on her condition
matrimonially.

'There was no attempt to bring him home when he died?' 'O no. The climate necessitates instant burial. We shall have more
particulars in a day or two, doubtless.' 'Poor Lady Constantine,--so good and so sensitive as she is! I suppose
she is quite prostrated by the bad news.' 'Well, she is rather serious,--not prostrated. The household is going
into mourning.' 'Ah, no, she would not be quite prostrated,' murmured Swithin,
recollecting himself. 'He was unkind to her in many ways. Do you think
she will go away from Welland?' That the vicar could not tell. But he feared that Sir Blount's affairs
had been in a seriously involved condition, which might necessitate many
and unexpected changes.