Betty herself wore a changed face when she came down.  A cloud had passed over her blooming, as clouds pass over a morning sky and dim it.  Rosalie asked herself if she had not noticed something like this before.  She began to think she had.  Yes, she was sure that at intervals there had been moments when she had glanced at the brilliant face with an uneasy and yet half-unrealising sense of looking at a glowing light temporarily waning.  The feeling had been unrealisable, because it was not to be explained.  Betty was never ill, she was never low-spirited, she was never out of humour or afraid of things—­that was why it was so wonderful to live with her.  But—­yes, it was true—­there had been days when the strong, fine light of her had waned.  Lady Anstruthers’ comprehension of it arose now from her memory of the look she had seen the night before in the eyes which suddenly had gazed straight before her, as into an unknown place.

“Yes, I know—­I know—­I know!” And the tone in the girl’s voice had been one Rosy had not heard before.

Slight wonder—­if you knew—­at any outward change which showed itself, though in your own most desperate despite.  It would be so even with Betty, who, in her sister’s eyes, was unlike any other creature.  But perhaps it would be better to make no comment.  To make comment would be almost like asking the question she had been forbidden to ask.

While the servants were in the room during breakfast they talked of common things, resorting even to the weather and the news of the village.  Afterwards they passed into the morning room together, and Betty put her arm around Rosalie and kissed her.

“Nigel has suddenly gone away, I hear,” she said.  “Do you know where he has gone?”

“He came to my dressing-room to tell me.”  Betty felt the whole slim body stiffen itself with a determination to seem calm.  “He said he was going to find out where the old Duke of Broadmorlands was staying at present.”

“There is some forethought in that,” was Betty’s answer.  “He is not on such terms with the Duke that he can expect to be received as a casual visitor.  It will require apt contrivance to arrange an interview.  I wonder if he will be able to accomplish it?”

“Yes, he will,” said Lady Anstruthers.  “I think he can always contrive things like that.”  She hesitated a moment, and then added:  “He said also that he wished to find out certain things about Mr. Ffolliott—­’trifling data,’ he called it—­that he might be able to lay his hands on things if father came.  He told me to explain to you.”

“That was intended for a taunt—­but it’s a warning,” Betty said, thinking the thing over.  “We are rather like ladies left alone to defend a besieged castle.  He wished us to feel that.”  She tightened her enclosing arm.  “But we stand together—­together.  We shall not fail each other.  We can face siege until father comes.”

“You wrote to him last night?”