the spacious passages of
the Lodge, adorned with the usual sportsman's trophies, till she was
ushered into a small sitting-room, Lady Dunstable's particular den,
crowded with photographs of half the celebrities of the day--the poets,
_savants_, and artists, of England, Europe, and America. On an easel
stood a masterly small portrait of Lord Dunstable as a young man, by
Bastien Lepage; and not far from it--rather pushed into a corner--a
sketch by Millais of a fair-haired boy, leaning against a pony.

By this time Doris was quivering both with excitement and fatigue. She
sank into a chair, and turned eagerly to the wine and biscuits with
which Miss Field pursued her. While she ate and drank, Lady Dunstable
sat in a high chair observing her, one long and pointed foot crossed
over the other, her black eyes alive with satiric interrogation, to
which, however, she gave no words.

The wine was reviving. Doris found her voice. As the door closed on Miss
Field, she bent forward:--

"Lady Dunstable, I didn't come here on my own account, and had there
been time of course I should have given you notice. I came entirely on
your account, because something was happening to you--and Lord
Dunstable--which you didn't know, and which made me--very sorry for
you!"

Lady Dunstable started slightly.

"Happening to me?--and Lord Dunstable?"

"I have been seeing your son, Lady Dunstable."

An instant change passed over the countenance of that lady. It darkened,
and the eyes became cold and wary.

"Indeed? I didn't know you were acquainted with him."

"I never saw him till a few days ago. Then I saw him--in my uncle's
studio--with a woman--a woman to whom he is engaged."

Lady Dunstable started again.

"I think you must be mistaken," she said quickly, with a slight but
haughty straightening of her shoulders.

Doris shook her head.

"No, I am not mistaken. I will tell you--if you don't mind--exactly what
I have heard and seen."

And with a puckered brow and visible effort she entered on the story of
the happenings of which she had been a witness in Bentley's studio. She
was perfectly conscious--for a time--that she was telling it against a
dead weight of half scornful, half angry incredulity on Lady Dunstable's
part. Rachel Dunstable listened, indeed, attentively. But it was clear
that she resented the story, which she did not believe; resented the
telling of it, on her own ground, by this young woman whom she
disliked; and re