Melbury rang at the tradesmen's door of the manor-house, and was at
once informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he might
have guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. Melbury said he
would wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly way
that, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep.

"Never mind," said Melbury, retreating into the court, "I'll stand
about here." Charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contact
with anybody.

But he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobody
came to him. At last he entered the house and sat down in a small
waiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, and
of the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. They
had heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagining
him still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of his
calling. They marvelled at his temerity; for though most of the
tongues which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthiness
to Fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistress
as the deeper sinner.

Melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn
walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use.
The scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a
tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. Through this
vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and
there, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of a
stained window. He waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours.
He began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, asked
him to have a glass of wine. Melbury roused himself and said, "No, no.
Is she almost ready?"