t was easier, speaking to Sir Lionel, because he hadn't been
kind to me since the last evening in Chester--I can't think why, though
I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind;
but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop
promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.

I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three
other things--all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount;
and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order,
that same night--assured instead of registered, as the letter was so
valuable.

Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to
take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit
chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without
great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't
matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said
something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the
sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt
like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.

It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the
vinegar has pickled me internally?

Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful
hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On
leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and
Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once
agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the
Brontes lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He
planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate
(not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has
sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that
Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire
field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline
as to Honore's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've
written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as
I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you
shouldn't send a letter to Graylees--the last letter, I hope, which need
ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice
to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable