hat the faint illumination
thus produced would be sufficient to save her from the charge of stupid
conduct as entertainer.

Fluttering about on the horns of this dilemma, she was greatly relieved
when Christopher, who read her difficulty, and the general painfulness of
the situation, said that since Ethelberta was really suffering from a
headache he would not wish to disturb her till to-morrow, and went off
downstairs and into the street without further ceremony.

Meanwhile other things had happened upstairs. No sooner had Picotee left
her sister's room, than Ethelberta thought it would after all have been
much better if she had gone down herself to speak to this admirably
persistent lover. Was she not drifting somewhat into the character of
coquette, even if her ground of offence--a word of Christopher's about
somebody else's mean parentage, which was spoken in utter forgetfulness
of her own position, but had wounded her to the quick nevertheless--was
to some extent a tenable one? She knew what facilities in suffering
Christopher always showed; how a touch to other people was a blow to him,
a blow to them his deep wound, although he took such pains to look stolid
and unconcerned under those inflictions, and tried to smile as if he had
no feelings whatever. It would be more generous to go down to him, and
be kind. She jumped up with that alertness which comes so spontaneously
at those sweet bright times when desire and duty run hand in hand.

She hastily set her hair and dress in order--not such matchless order as
she could have wished them to be in, but time was precious--and descended
the stairs. When on the point of pushing open the drawing-room door,
which wanted about an inch of being closed, she was astounded to discover
that the room was in total darkness, and still more to hear Picotee
sobbing inside. To retreat again was the only action she was capable of
at that moment: the clash between this picture and the anticipated scene
of Picotee and Christopher sitting in frigid propriety at opposite sides
of a well-lighted room was too great. She flitted upstairs again with
the least possible rustle, and flung herself down on the couch as before,
panting with excitement at the new knowledge that had come to her.

There was only one possible construction to be put upon this in
Ethelberta's rapid mind, and that approximated to the true one. She had
known for some time that Picotee once had a lover, or somethi