But the young and silly pair had now relieved her as well as Mrs. Orchil of any further trouble concerning themselves, the American duchess, the campaign, and the Horse Guards:  they had married each other rather shamelessly one evening while supposed to be dancing at the Sandon Craigs’, and had departed expensively for Palm Beach, whither Austin, grim, reticent, but inwardly immensely contented, despatched the accumulated exclamatory letters of the family with an intimation of his own that two weeks was long enough to cut business even with a honeymoon as excuse.

Meanwhile the disorganisation in the nursery was tremendous; the children, vaguely aware of the household demoralisation and excitement, took the opportunity to break loose on every occasion; and Kit-Ki, to her infinite boredom and disgust, was hunted from garret to cellar; and Drina, taking advantage, contrived to over-eat herself and sit up late, and was put to bed sick; and Eileen, loyal, but sorrowfully amazed at her brother’s exclusion of her in such a crisis, became slowly overwhelmed with the realisation of her loneliness, and took to the seclusion of her own room, feeling tearful and abandoned, and very much like a very little girl whose heart was becoming far too full of all sorts of sorrows.

Nina misunderstood her, finding her lying on her bed, her pale face pillowed in her hair.

“Only horridly ordinary people will believe that Gerald wanted her money,” said Nina; “as though an Erroll considered such matters at all—­or needed to.  Clear, clean English you are, back to the cavaliers whose flung purses were their thanks when the Cordovans held their horses’ heads. . . .  What are you crying for?”

“I don’t know,” said Eileen; “not for anything that you speak of.  Neither Gerald nor I ever wasted any emotion over money, or what others think about it. . . .  Is Drina ill?”

“No; only sick.  Calomel will fix her, but she believes she’s close to dissolution and she’s sent for Boots to take leave of him—­the little monkey!  I’m so indignant.  She’s taken advantage of the general demoralisation to eat up everything in the house. . . .  Billy fell downstairs, fox-hunting, and his nose bled all over that pink Kirman rug. . . .  Boots is a dear; do you know what he’s done?”

“What?” asked Eileen listlessly, raising the back of her slender hand from her eyes to peer at Nina through the glimmer of tears.

“Well, he and Phil have moved out of Boots’s house, and Boots has wired Gerald and Gladys that the house is ready for them until they can find a place of their own.  Of course they’ll both come here—­in fact, their luggage is upstairs now—­Boots takes the blue room and Phil his old quarters, . . .  But don’t you think it is perfectly sweet of Boots?  And isn’t it good to have Philip back again?”

“Y-es,” said Eileen faintly.  Lying there, the deep azure of her eyes starred with tears, a new tremor altered her mouth, and the tight-curled upper lip quivered.  Her heart, too, had begun its heavy, unsteady response in recognition of her lover’s name; she turned partly away from Nina, burying her face in her brilliant hair; and beside her slim length, straight and tense, her arms lay, the small hands contracting till they had closed as tightly as her teeth.