"Thank you, Aunt Randolph, for
telling me," she said very sweetly, though, indeed, she had no intention
of taking the Dowager's advice. Lady Randolph went off in the afternoon
of the next day, for it was a very short journey to the Maltravers',
where she was going. All the party came out into the hall to see her
away, the Contessa herself as well as the others. Nothing, indeed, could
be more cordial than the Contessa. She caught up a shawl and wound it
round her, elaborately defending herself against the cold, and came out
to the steps to share in the last farewells.

When Lady Randolph was in the carriage with her maid by her side, and
her hot-water footstool under her feet, and the coachman waiting his
signal to drive away, she put out her hand amid her furs to Lucy. "Now
remember!" Lady Randolph said. It was almost as solemn as the mysterious
reminder of the dying king to the bishop. But unfortunately, what is
solemn in certain circumstances may be ludicrous in others. The party in
the Hall scarcely restrained its merriment till the carriage had driven
away.

"What awful compact is this between you, Lucy?" Sir Tom said. "Has she
bound you by a vow to assassinate me in my sleep?"

The Contessa unwound herself out of her shawl, and putting her arm
caressingly round Lucy, led her back to the drawing-room. "It has
something to do with me," she said. "Come and tell me all about it."
Lucy had been disconcerted by Lady Randolph's reminder. She was still
more disconcerted now.

"It is--something Aunt Randolph wishes me to do in the spring, when we
go to town," she said.

"Ah! I know what that is," said the Contessa. "They see that you are too
kind to your husband's friend. Milady would wish you to be more as she
herself is. I understand her very well. I understand them all, these
women. They cannot endure me. They see a meaning in everything I do. I
have not a meaning in everything I do," she added, with a pathetic look,
which went to Lucy's heart.

"No, no, indeed you are mistaken. It was not that. I am sure you have no
meaning," said Lucy, vehement and confused.

The Contessa read her innocent _distraite_ countenance like a book, as
she said--or at least she thought so. She linked her own delicate arm in
hers, and clasped Lucy's hand. "One day I will tell you why all these
ladies hate me, my little angel," she said.

CHAPTER XXI.

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

In the meantime something had been going on be