‘To leave?’ said the housekeeper, whose almost invariable custom it was to repeat the last words addressed to her.  ’Oh, yes, to leave.  Of course.’

‘But at what time?’ Julia asked, wondering whether the woman was as dull as she seemed.

‘Yes, at what time?’ Then after a pause and with a phenomenal effort, ’I will go and see—­if you please.’

She returned presently.  ‘There are no horses,’ she said.  ’When they are ready the gentleman will let you know.’

‘They have sent for some?’

‘Sent for some,’ repeated Mrs. Olney, and nodded, but whether in assent or imbecility it was hard to say.

After that Julia troubled her no more, but rising from her meal had recourse to the window and her own thoughts.  These were in unison with the neglected garden and the sullen pool, which even the sunshine failed to enliven.  Her heart was torn between the sense of Sir George’s treachery—­which now benumbed her brain and now awoke it to a fury of resentment—­and fond memories of words and looks and gestures, that shook her very frame and left her sick—­love-sick and trembling.  She did not look forward or form plans; nor, in the dull lethargy in which she was for the most part sunk, was she aware of the passage of time until Mrs. Olney came in with mouth and eyes a little wider than usual, and announced that the gentleman was coming up.

Julia supposed that the woman referred to Mr. Thomasson; and, recalled to the necessity of returning to Marlborough, she gave a reluctant permission.  Great was her astonishment when, a moment later, not the tutor, but Lord Almeric, fanning himself with a laced handkerchief and carrying his little French hat under his arm, appeared on the threshold, and entered simpering and bowing.  He was extravagantly dressed in a mixed silk coat, pink satin waistcoat, and a mushroom stock, with breeches of silver net and white silk stockings; and had a large pearl pin thrust through his wig.  Unhappily, his splendour, designed to captivate the porter’s daughter, only served to exhibit more plainly the nerveless hand and sickly cheeks which he owed to last night’s debauch.

Apparently he was aware of this, for his first words were, ’Oh, Lord!  What a twitter I am in!  I vow and protest, ma’am, I don’t know where you get your roses of a morning.  But I wish you would give me the secret.’

‘Sir!’ she said, interrupting him, surprise in her face.  ’Or’—­with a momentary flush of confusion—­’I should say, my lord, surely there must be some mistake here.’

‘None, I dare swear,’ Lord Almeric answered, bowing gallantly.  ’But I am in such a twitter’—­he dropped his hat and picked it up again—­’I hardly know what I am saying.  To be sure, I was devilish cut last night!  I hope nothing was said to—­to—­oh, Lord!  I mean I hope you were not much incommoded by the night air, ma’am.’

‘The night air has not hurt me, I thank you,’ said Julia, who did not take the trouble to hide her impatience.