*

The house seems dull and depressing without the old people or Rover.
Philip is sure to stay late in the City, having spent most of the
morning at home, and since she has no engagement. Thus Eleanor eases
her conscience and waits expectantly for Carol.

Her drawing-room with its bright log fire looks cosy in the extreme as
Mr. Quinton enters it that afternoon.

Eleanor is curled up on the sofa, a little bundle of sad silk drapery.
Her eyes are wistful, her tea-gown is black. The dim light reveals not
the slight _soupcon_ of powder paling her features. She barely rises
to greet him, only moving to a sitting posture, her feet still tucked
under her, holding out a trembling hand. As the door closes he grasps
the pink fingers and presses them to his lips.

"Don't," a reproachful glance from under her long fringed lashes, "that
is not kind."

"But they are such tempting fingers," he whispers apologetically.

"Come, draw up that chair and sit beside me like a doctor, only I want
you to heal my sorrows. I have got such a horrid wound _here_,"
pressing her heart. "But first of all, was I wrong to telegraph? Are
you angry, Mr. Quinton?"

"It was delightful of you," he murmurs, looking down on her with all
his eyes. "Dear Mrs. Roche, I thank you from my soul. Only let me be
your confidant--your friend!"

"Have you been to Giddy's?" she asks eagerly.

"No, what do you take me for? Was I not commanded to come here
instead?"

"Giddy is no longer my friend; she has treated me abominably--snubbed
and insulted me in my own house, simply because I wanted to bring my
parents to her stupid party. They are the dearest old people from the
country, not gifted with her false Society airs. I was only a farmer's
daughter, you know. She taunted me with meeting you at her house and
being ashamed of my parents. Bah! it sickens me."

She flung her head back with an air of offended dignity, her eyes
flashing at the remembrance of Giddy's stinging phrases.

"The impudent little fiend!" mutters Quinton through his teeth. "How
dare she?"

"Oh, she dares very well. I am in mortal terror of her tongue. We are
utterly at the mercy of our friends; these people call themselves
friends, though they deal us the bitterest cuts, the cruellest
contumely."

"How _dare_ she?" he repeats again, a fierce expression clouding his
brow. "To attack a poor little thing like you, and for such a
reason----"

"It is very hard--