FOR a quarter of an hour the drawing-room remained empty.  At the end of that time the council in the boudoir broke up.  Lady Lydiard led the way back into the drawing-room, followed by Hardyman, Isabel being left to look after the dog.  Before the door closed behind him, Hardyman turned round to reiterate his last medical directions—­or, in plainer words, to take a last look at Isabel.

“Plenty of water, Miss Isabel, for the dog to lap, and a little bread or biscuit, if he wants something to eat.  Nothing more, if you please, till I see him to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir.  I will take the greatest care—­”

At that point Lady Lydiard cut short the interchange of instructions and civilities.  “Shut the door, if you please, Mr. Hardyman.  I feel the draught.  Many thanks!  I am really at a loss to tell you how gratefully I feel your kindness.  But for you my poor little dog might be dead by this time.”

Hardyman answered, in the quiet melancholy monotone which was habitual with him, “Your Ladyship need feel no further anxiety about the dog.  Only be careful not to overfeed him.  He will do very well under Miss Isabel’s care.  By the bye, her family name is Miller—­is it not?  Is she related to the Warwickshire Millers of Duxborough House?”

Lady Lydiard looked at him with an expression of satirical surprise.  “Mr. Hardyman,” she said, “this makes the fourth time you have questioned me about Isabel.  You seem to take a great interest in my little companion.  Don’t make any apologies, pray!  You pay Isabel a compliment, and, as I am very fond of her, I am naturally gratified when I find her admired.  At the same time,” she added, with one of her abrupt transitions of language, “I had my eye on you, and I had my eye on her, when you were talking in the next room; and I don’t mean to let you make a fool of the girl.  She is not in your line of life, and the sooner you know it the better.  You make me laugh when you ask if she is related to gentlefolks.  She is the orphan daughter of a chemist in the country.  Her relations haven’t a penny to bless themselves with, except an old aunt, who lives in a village on two or three hundred a year.  I heard of the girl by accident.  When she lost her father and mother, her aunt offered to take her.  Isabel said, ’No, thank you; I will not be a burden on a relation who has only enough for herself.  A girl can earn an honest living if she tries; and I mean to try’—­that’s what she said.  I admired her independence,” her Ladyship proceeded, ascending again to the higher regions of thought and expression.  “My niece’s marriage, just at that time, had left me alone in this great house.  I proposed to Isabel to come to me as companion and reader for a few weeks, and to decide for herself whether she liked the life or not.  We have never been separated since that time.  I could hardly be fonder of her if she were my own daughter; and she returns my affection with all her heart.  She has excellent qualities—­prudent,