“He is either a person of very limited intelligence when he is away from his stables,” she thought, “or he deliberately declines to take a plain hint when it is given to him.  I can’t drop his acquaintance, on Tommie’s account.  The only other alternative is to keep Isabel out of his way.  My good little girl shall not drift into a false position while I am living to look after her.  When Mr. Hardyman calls to-morrow she shall be out on an errand.  When he calls the next time she shall be upstairs with a headache.  And if he tries it again she shall be away at my house in the country.  If he makes any remarks on her absence—­well, he will find that I can be just as dull of understanding as he is when the occasion calls for it.”

Having arrived at this satisfactory solution of the difficulty, Lady Lydiard became conscious of an irresistible impulse to summon Isabel to her presence and caress her.  In the nature of a warm-hearted woman, this was only the inevitable reaction which followed the subsidence of anxiety about the girl, after her own resolution had set that anxiety at rest.  She threw open the door and made one of her sudden appearances at the boudoir.  Even in the fervent outpouring of her affection, there was still the inherent abruptness of manner which so strongly marked Lady Lydiard’s character in all the relations of life.

“Did I give you a kiss, this morning?” she asked, when Isabel rose to receive her.

“Yes, my Lady,” said the girl, with her charming smile.

“Come, then, and give me a kiss in return.  Do you love me?  Very well, then, treat me like your mother.  Never mind ‘my lady’ this time.  Give me a good hug!”

Something in those homely words, or something perhaps in the look that accompanied them, touched sympathies in Isabel which seldom showed themselves on the surface.  Her smiling lips trembled, the bright tears rose in her eyes.  “You are too good to me,” she murmured, with her head on Lady Lydiard’s bosom.  “How can I ever love you enough in return?”

Lady Lydiard patted the pretty head that rested on her with such filial tenderness.  “There! there!” she said, “Go back and play with Tommie, my dear.  We may be as fond of each other as we like; but we mustn’t cry.  God bless you!  Go away—­go away!”

She turned aside quickly; her own eyes were moistening, and it was part of her character to be reluctant to let Isabel see it.  “Why have I made a fool of myself?” she wondered, as she approached the drawing-room door.  “It doesn’t matter.  I am all the better for it.  Odd, that Mr. Hardyman should have made me feel fonder of Isabel than ever!”

With those reflections she re-entered the drawing-room—­and suddenly checked herself with a start.  “Good Heavens!” she exclaimed irritably, “how you frightened me!  Why was I not told you were here?”