"

"This dress is Miss Barrington's. Good-night, Lord Bromley," said
Bluebell, trying to pass.

"What! you poor child, are you sent to bed? Come along with me. I'll make
it right with Mrs. Barrington."

"I cannot, indeed. I am ill--I am tired," said Bluebell, desperately.

Lord Bromley's eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her; but people were
coming along the passage, and, escaping from him, she darted off.

No one was in the nursery. Bluebell hastily changed her dress, wrapped
herself in a dark cloak, and drew the hood over her head; then,
descending the staircase, listened a moment at the foot. No one seemed
about. She flew down a dark passage into the billiard-room, threw open
the French window, and stepped out. It was as dark as a summer's night
ever is, and a soft shower was falling; but Bluebell took no heed.
Avoiding the front of the house, she threaded her way by the back
settlements. A dog barked, and a poaching cat was marauding about. The
grass felt damp and clinging as she struck into what was called "The West
Drive." It was not kept exactly in lawn order there. A hundred yards
further on was a summer-house, thatched inside and out with moss, from
which, long ere she reached it, Harry Dutton emerged, and, folding her in
his arms, drew her within its shelter.

In the meantime, the ball was in full swing; every now and then inquiries
were made for the missing heir. "Did not Mr. Dutton come to-night? I
wonder what has become of him!" Lord Bromley wondered too; but, before he
had time to be really offended at his absence. Mr. Dutton was observed
valsing with Lady Geraldine. The young sailor was no whit less
interesting for his Crimean campaign, to which his wound lent an
additional _prestige_; and it was astonishing what severe remarks were
made on the unloveliness of the partner with whom he most frequently
danced that night.

And yet such criticism was more undeserved than usual, for a look of
gentle happiness softened and inspired her naturally plain features, and
lent an unwonted tender grace to a somewhat inexpressive figure.

Lord Bromley did not observe their frequent contiguity with the same
satisfaction as of yore. On the contrary, his eye rested on Harry with a
somewhat sarcastic expression, and he remained thoughtful and _distrait_.

CHAPTER XL.

THE MINIATURE.

True, I have married her.
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more.