Never had my lady been so astounded in her life. For a moment she could scarcely speak. When she recovered herself she pointed to the door. "Go to your room," she commanded. "This is American freedom of speech, I suppose. Go to your room." Lucia rose obediently. She could not help wondering what her ladyship's course would be if she had the hardihood to disregard her order. She really looked quite capable of carrying it out forcibly herself. When the girl stood at her bedroom window, a few minutes later, her cheeks were burning and her hands trembling. "I am afraid it was very badly done," she said to herself. "I am sure it was; but--but it will be a kind of practice. I was in such a hurry to try if I were equal to it, that I didn't seem to balance things quite rightly. I ought to have waited until I had more reason to speak out. Perhaps there wasn't enough reason then, and I was more aggressive than I ought to have been. Octavia is never aggressive. I wonder if I was at all pert. I don't think Octavia ever means to be pert. I felt a little as if I meant to be pert. I must learn to balance myself, and only be cool and frank." Then she looked out of the window, and reflected a little. "I was not so very brave, after all," she said, rather reluctantly. "I didn't tell her Mr. Burmistone was there. I daren't have done that. I am afraid I _am_ sly--that sounds sly, I am sure." CHAPTER XVIII. CONTRAST. "Lady Theobald will put a stop to it," was the general remark. "It will certainly not occur again." This was said upon the evening of the first gathering upon Miss Belinda's grass-plat, and at the same time it was prophesied that Mr. Francis Barold would soon go away. But neither of the prophecies proved true. Mr. Francis Barold did _not_ return to London; and, strange to say, Lucia was seen again and again playing croquet with Octavia Bassett, and was even known to spend evenings with her. Perhaps it might be that an appeal made by Miss Belinda to her ladyship had caused her to allow of these things. Miss Belinda had, in fact, made a private call upon my lady, to lay her case before her. "I feel so very timid about every thing," she said, almost with tears, "and so fearful of trusting myself, that I really find it quite a trial. The dear child has such a kind heart--I assure you she has a kind heart, dear Lady Theobald,--and is so innocent of any intention to do wrong--I am sure she is innocent,--that it seems cruel to judge her severely. If she had had the benefit of such training as dear Lucia's. I am convinced that her conduct would have been most exemplary. She sees herself that she has faults: I am sure she does. She said to me only last night, in that odd way of hers,--she had been sitting, evidently thinking deeply, for some minutes,--and she said, 'I wonder if I shouldn't be nicer if I were more like Lucia Gaston.' You see what turn her mind must have taken. She admires Lucia so much."