“Sir Charles doesn’t expect me, Hordle,” she said.  “But hearing Miss Damaris was unwell I came over from Paulton Lacy at once.”

“Quite so, ma’am.  Sir Charles has not left his room yet.  He did not reach home till late, and he sat up with Miss Damaris the rest of the night.”

“Oh! dear—­did he?  Then, of course, I wouldn’t disturb him on any account, Hordle.  I had better see Miss Bilson first.  Will you tell her I am here?”

“I can send Laura to enquire, ma’am.  But, I doubt if Miss Bilson, will care to come downstairs at present.”

“She is with Miss Damaris?”

“No, ma’am, Miss Bilson is not with Miss Damaris.”

Hordle paused impressively, sucking in his under lip.

“If I might presume to advise, ma’am, I think it would be wise you should see Miss Bilson in the schoolroom—­and go up by the back staircase, ma’am, if you don’t object so as to avoid passing Miss Damaris’ bedroom door.  I should not presume to suggest it, ma’am, but that our orders as to quiet are very strict.”

In this somewhat ignominious method of reaching her objective Miss Verity, although more and more mystified, amiably acquiesced—­to be greeted, when Hordle throwing open the schoolroom door formally announced her, by a sound closely resembling a shriek.

Entrenched behind a couple of yawning trunks, a litter of feminine apparel and of personal effects—­the accumulation of a long term of years, for she was an inveterate hoarder—­encumbering every available surface, the carpet included, Theresa Bilson stood as at bay.

“My dear friend,” Miss Verity exclaimed advancing with kindly outstretched hands—­“what is the meaning of this?”—­She looked at the miscellaneous turn-out of cupboards and chests of drawers, at the display of garments not usually submitted to the public gaze.  “Are you preparing a rummage sale or are you—­but no, surely not!—­are you packing?  I cannot describe how anxious I am to hear what has occurred.  My sister, Mrs. Cowden, was extremely adverse to my facing the bad weather; but, I felt your note could only be answered in person.  Let me hear everything.”

She drew Theresa from behind the luggage entrenchments, and, putting aside an assortment of derelict hats and artificial flowers strewn in most admired confusion on the sofa, made her sit down upon the said piece of furniture beside her.

Whereupon, in the pensive, rain-washed, mid-day light, which served to heighten rather than mitigate the prevailing, very unattractive and rather stuffy disorder obtaining in the room, Theresa Bilson, not without chokings and lamentations, gave forth the story of her—­to herself quite spectacular—­deposition from the command of The Hard and its household.  She had sufficiently recovered her normal attitude, by this time, to pose to herself, now as a heroine of one of Charlotte Bronte’s novels, now as a milder and more refined sample of injured innocence