herself, with the tears in her eyes, “how can I talk of him in this way when he is so dreadfully ill!  Some of them say it’s bronchitis, and some say it’s his liver.  Only yesterday I took him to the front door to give him a little air, and he stood still on the pavement, quite stupefied.  For the first time in his life, he snapped at nobody who went by; and, oh, dear, he hadn’t even the heart to smell a lamp-post!”

Isabel had barely stated this last afflicting circumstance when the memoirs of Tommie were suddenly cut short by the voice of Lady Lydiard—­really calling this time—­from the inner room.

“Isabel!  Isabel!” cried her Ladyship, “what are you about?”

Isabel ran to the door of the boudoir and threw it open.  “Go in, sir!  Pray go in!” she said.

“Without you?” Hardyman asked.

“I will follow you, sir.  I have something to do for her Ladyship first.”

She still held the door open, and pointed entreatingly to the passage which led to the boudoir “I shall be blamed, sir,” she said, “if you don’t go in.”

This statement of the case left Hardyman no alternative.  He presented himself to Lady Lydiard without another moment of delay.

Having closed the drawing-room door on him, Isabel waited a little, absorbed in her own thoughts.

She was now perfectly well aware of the effect which she had produced on Hardyman.  Her vanity, it is not to be denied, was flattered by his admiration—­he was so grand and so tall, and he had such fine large eyes.  The girl looked prettier than ever as she stood with her head down and her color heightened, smiling to herself.  A clock on the chimney-piece striking the half-hour roused her.  She cast one look at the glass, as she passed it, and went to the table at which Lady Lydiard had been writing.

Methodical Mr. Moody, in submitting to be employed as bath-attendant upon Tommie, had not forgotten the interests of his mistress.  He reminded her Ladyship that she had left her letter, with a bank-note inclosed in it, unsealed.  Absorbed in the dog, Lady Lydiard answered, “Isabel is doing nothing, let Isabel seal it.  Show Mr. Hardyman in here,” she continued, turning to Isabel, “and then seal a letter of mine which you will find on the table.”  “And when you have sealed it,” careful Mr. Moody added, “put it back on the table; I will take charge of it when her Ladyship has done with me.”

Such were the special instructions which now detained Isabel in the drawing-room.  She lighted the taper, and closed and sealed the open envelope, without feeling curiosity enough even to look at the address.  Mr. Hardyman was the uppermost subject in her thoughts.  Leaving the sealed letter on the table, she returned to the fireplace, and studied her own charming face attentively in the looking-glass.  The time passed—­and Isabel’s reflection was still the subject of Isabel’s contemplation.  “He must see many beautiful ladies,” she thought, veering backward and forward between pride and humility.  “I wonder what he sees in Me?”