I must tell
her that I have, by mistake, read the first few lines."

"Yes," said May Dashwood.

"After all, what else could I say?" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "You can't
exactly tell a daughter that you think her mother is a shameless hussy,
even if you may think that she ought to know it."

"Poor Gwen and poor Lady Belinda!" said May Dashwood sighing, and moving
to go, and trying hard to feel real pity in her heart.

"No," said Lady Dashwood, raising her voice, "I don't say 'poor
Belinda.' I don't feel a bit sorry for the old reprobate, I feel more
angry with her. Don't you see yourself--now you know Jim," continued
Lady Dashwood, throwing out her words at her niece's retreating
figure--"don't you see that Jim deserves something better than Belinda
and Co.? Now, would you like to see him saddled for life with Gwendolen
Scott?"

May Dashwood did not reply immediately; she seemed to be much occupied
in walking very slowly to the door and then in slowly turning the handle
of the door. Surely Gwendolen and her mother were pitiable
objects--unsuccessful as they were?

"Now, would you?" demanded Lady Dashwood. "Would you?"

"I should trust him not to do that," said May, as she opened the door.
She looked back at the tall erect figure in the grey silk
dressing-gown. "Good night, dear aunt." And she went out. "You see, I am
running away, and I order you to go to bed. You are tired." She spoke
through the small open space she had left, and then she closed the door.

"Trust him! Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood, in a loud voice.

But she was not altogether displeased with the word "trust" in May
Dashwood's mouth. "She seems pretty confident that Jim isn't going to
make a martyr of himself," she said to herself happily.

The door opened and Louise entered with an enigmatical look on her face.
Louise had been listening outside for the tempestuous sounds that in her
country would have issued from any two normal women under the same
circumstances.

But no such sounds had reached her attentive ears, and here was Lady
Dashwood moving about with a serene countenance. She was even smiling.
Oh, what a country, what people!

CHAPTER VIII

THE LOST LETTER

The next morning it was still raining. It was a typical Oxford day, a
day of which there are so many in the year that those who have best
known Oxford think of her fondly in terms of damp sandstone.

They remember her gabled roofs, narrow pavements, winding al