not at all calculated to melt the "black imp"
further. Arthur wrote in a great hurry to beg that she would not go on
with their Welsh plans--for the moment.

Lady D---- has insisted on my going on a short yachting cruise with
her and Miss Field, the week after next. She wants to show me the
West Coast, and they have a small cottage in the Shetlands where we
should stay a night or two and watch the sea-birds. It _may_ keep me
away another week or fortnight, but you won't mind, dear, will you?
I am getting famously rested, and really the house is very
agreeable. In these surroundings Lady Dunstable is less of the
_bas-bleu_, and more of the woman. You _must_ make up your mind to
come another year! You would soon get over your prejudice and make
friends with her. She looks after us all--she talks brilliantly--and
I haven't seen her rude to anybody since I arrived. There are some
very nice people here, and altogether I am enjoying it. Don't you
work too hard--and don't let the servants harry you. Post just
going. Good night!

Another week or fortnight!--five weeks, or nearly, altogether. Doris was
sorely wounded. She went to look at herself in the mirror over the
chimney-piece. Was she not thin and haggard for want of rest and
holiday? Would not the summer weather be all done by the time Arthur
graciously condescended to come back to her? Were there not dark lines
under her eyes, and was she not feeling a limp and wretched creature,
unfit for any exertion? What was wrong with her? She hated her
drawing--she hated everything. And there was Arthur, proposing to go
yachting with Lady Dunstable!--while she might toil and moil--all
alone--in this August London! The tears rushed into her eyes. Her pride
only just saved her from a childish fit of crying.

But in the end resentment came to her aid, together with an angry and
redoubled curiosity as to what might be happening to Lady Dunstable's
precious son while Lady Dunstable was thus absorbed in robbing other
women of their husbands. Doris hurried her small household affairs, that
she might get off early to the studio; and as she put on her hat, her
fancy drew vindictive pictures of the scene which any day might
realise--the scene at Franick Castle, when Lady Dunstable, unsuspecting,
should open the letter which announced to her the advent of her
daughter-in-law, Elena, _nee_ Flink--or should gather the same unlovely
fac