’I shall say nothing more about it, Louise.  It isn’t my business to—­’

The girl’s face threatened a tempest.  As Emmeline was moving away, she rudely obstructed her.

’I insist on you telling me what you think.  It was abominable of him to come when I wasn’t at home; and I don’t think you ought to have seen him.  You’ve no right to keep your thoughts to yourself!’

Mrs. Mumford was offended, and showed it.

’I have a perfect right, and I shall do so.  Please don’t let us quarrel.  You may be fond of it, but I am not.’

Louise went from the room and remained invisible till just before dinner, when she came down with a grave and rather haughty countenance.  To Mumford’s remarks she replied with curt formality; he, prepared for this state of things, began conversing cheerfully with his wife, and Miss Derrick kept silence.  After dinner, she passed out into the garden.

‘It won’t do,’ said Mumford.  ’The house is upset.  I’m afraid we shall have to get rid of her.’

’If she can’t behave herself, I’m afraid we must.  It’s my fault.  I ought to have known that it would never do.’

At half-past ten, Louise was still sitting out of doors in the dark.  Emmeline, wishing to lock up for the night, went to summon her troublesome guest.

‘Hadn’t you better come in?’

‘Yes.  But I think you are very unkind, Mrs. Mumford.’

’Miss Derrick, I really can’t do anything but leave you alone when you are in such an unpleasant hum our.’

’But that’s just what you oughtn’t to do.  When I’m left alone I sulk, and that’s bad for all of us.  If you would just get angry and give me what I deserve, it would be all over very soon.’

’You are always talking about “nice” people.  Nice people don’t have scenes of that kind.’

’No, I suppose not.  And I’m very sorry, and if you’ll let me beg your pardon—.  There, and we might have made it up hours ago.  I won’t ask you to tell me what you think of Mr. Cobb.  I’ve written him the kind of letter his impudence deserves.’

’Very well.  We won’t talk of it any more.  And if you could be a little quieter in your manners, Louise—­’

‘I will, I promise I will I Let me say good-night to Mr. Mumford.’

For a day or two there was halcyon weather.  On Saturday afternoon Louise hired a carriage and took her friends for a drive into the country; at her special request the child accompanied them.  Nothing could have been more delightful.  She had quite made up her mind to have a house, some day, at Sutton.  She hoped the Mumfords would “always” live there, that they might perpetually enjoy each other’s society.  What were the rents? she inquired.  Well, to begin with, she would be content with one of the smaller houses; a modest, semidetached little place, like those at the far end of Cedar Road.  They were perfectly respectable—­were they not?  How this change in her station was to come about Louise offered no hint, and did not seem to think of the matter.