For some days she did not go out again. Excitement and the shock of Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon. One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had brought for her to eat. "How good you are, father!" Cynthia said gratefully. She took one to please him but she did not seem inclined to eat. She was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking pale and listless. There were dark shadows under her eyes and a sad expression about her mouth; one would scarcely have known her again for the brilliant beauty who had carried all before her when she sang in London drawing-rooms not three months earlier. Her father looked at her with sympathetic attention. "You want cockering up," he said, "and coddling and waiting on. When once we get out of this darned old country, you shall see something different, my girl! I've got money enough to do the thing in style when we reach the States. You shall have all you want there, and no mistake!" "Thank you, father," said the girl, with a listless smile. "I've had a long walk to-day," Westwood said, after a pause, "and I've been into what you would call danger, my girl. Ah, that rouses you up a bit, doesn't it? I've been to Russell Square." "To Russell Square." Cynthia's face turned crimson at once. "Oh, father, did you see--did you hear----" "Did I hear of Mr. Lepel? That's what I went for, my beauty! In spite of your quarrel, I thought you'd maybe like to hear how he was getting on. I talked to the gardener, a bit; Mr. Lepel's been ill again, you know." "A relapse?" said Cynthia quickly. "Yes, a relapse. They've had a hospital-nurse for him, I hear. He's not raving now, they say, but very weak and stupid-like." "Have none of his friends come to nurse him?" said Cynthia. "I don't know. The gardener wouldn't hear that, maybe. He said there'd been a death in the family--some child or other. Would that be General Vane's little boy, do you suppose?" "It might be." "Then Miss Vane will be the heiress. She and Mr. Lepel----" He hesitated for a moment, and Cynthia looked up. "Miss Vane is going to marry Mr. Evandale father. She is not engaged to Mr. Lepel now." "Oh! Not engaged to Mr. Lepel now? Then what the dickens," said Westwood very deliberately, "did you and Mr. Lepel quarrel about, I should like to know?" "I can't tell you, father. Nothing to do with that, however."