Cobb had written from Bristol, a week after the accident, formally requesting a statement of the pecuniary loss which the Mumfords had suffered; he was resolved to repay them, and would do so, if possible, as soon as he knew the sum.  Mumford felt a trifle ashamed to make the necessary declaration; at the outside, even with expenses of painting and papering, their actual damage could not be estimated at more than fifty pounds, and even Emmeline did not wish to save appearances by making an excessive demand.  The one costly object in the room—­the piano—­was practically uninjured, and sundry other pieces of furniture could easily be restored; for Cobb and his companion, as amateur firemen, had by no means gone recklessly to work.  By candle-light, when the floor was still a swamp, things looked more desperate than they proved to be on subsequent investigation; and it is wonderful at how little outlay, in our glistening times, a villa drawing-room may be fashionably equipped.  So Mumford wrote to his correspondent that only a few ‘articles’ had absolutely perished; that it was not his wish to make any demand at all; but that, if Mr. Cobb insisted on offering restitution, why, a matter of fifty pounds, etc. etc.  And in a few days this sum arrived, in the form of a draft upon respectable bankers.

Of course the house was in grievous disorder.  Upholsterers’ workmen would have been bad enough, but much worse was the establishment of Mrs. Higgins by her daughter’s bedside, which naturally involved her presence as a guest at table, and the endurance of her conversation whenever she chose to come downstairs.  Mumford urged his wife to take her summer holiday—­to go away with the child until all was put right again—­a phrase which included the removal of Miss Derrick to her own home; but of this Emmeline would not hear.  How could she enjoy an hour of mental quietude when, for all she knew, Mrs. Higgins and the patient might be throwing lamps at each other?  And her jealousy was still active, though she did not allow it to betray itself in words.  Clarence seemed to her quite needlessly anxious in his inquiries concerning Miss Derrick’s condition.  Until that young lady had disappeared from ‘Runnymede’ for ever, Emmeline would keep matronly watch and ward.

Mrs. Higgins declared at least a score of times every day that she could not understand how this dreadful affair had come to pass.  The most complete explanation from her daughter availed nothing; she deemed the event an insoluble mystery, and, in familiar talk with Mrs. Mumford, breathed singular charges against Louise’s lover.  ’She’s shielding him, my dear.  I’ve no doubt of it.  I never had a very good opinion of him, but now she shall never marry him with my consent.’  To this kind of remark Emmeline at length deigned no reply.  She grew to detest Mrs. Higgins, and escaped her society by every possible manoeuvre.