Miss Fortescue followed him indoors, leaving Jeannie alone under the trees. She was much annoyed at all that had happened, but she was a little amused, and had a sense of being somewhat ill-used. Though she had defended him, she thought Mr. Collingwood had behaved rather badly, the Colonel had behaved very badly indeed, and Mrs. Collingwood was absurd. However, she was going to deal with that lady, and Arthur was going to deal with the Colonel, and there only remained Mr. Collingwood himself. Jeannie devoutly hoped he would have some glimmerings of tact about him. If he looked awkward and uncomfortable, she would feel so, too, and really there was nothing to be awkward about. If she had done such a picture she would have snapped her fingers at any possible consequences, for she had the greatest respect for achievement of any kind. Certainly the picture was an achievement, and in her secret heart she had a pang of exultation at the thought that she was like that. Jeannie was singularly free from self-consciousness, and in her nature there was hardly a touch of egotism. But she wondered whether her sight of the picture had not given her some. In a way it had been a piece of self-revelation to her. She had no idea that people saw her like that. Very possibly they did not, but here was a man who did. How could she see him, she wondered? She had only given him one glance at their one meeting, and she remembered nothing more than a straight, rather tall figure, and a kindled eye. Very likely she would not have known him again if they had met casually. He looked clean and alert, that is all she would have sworn to. But she looked forward with a good deal of interest to his coming next day. Thus far had run her meditations when they were interrupted by the butler. Miss Clifford was waiting outside to know if she could see Jeannie for a moment, and only if she was disengaged. Jeannie sat up. “Yes, ask her to come out here,” she said. It would be hardly possible to conceive a more agonized and embarrassed face than that which Miss Clifford turned to Jeannie, and the latter could not conceive what was the matter. “I am quite free,” she said, “and delighted to see you. Did you come down on your bicycle?” “No,” said Miss Clara, “I did not feel up to my bicycle,” and Jeannie noticed that her hands were trembling. “Do sit down,” she said, gently. “And there is no hurry. Have some coffee? No? Tell me what it is then, just when you feel inclined.” There was a bitter tension about the corners of poor Miss Clara’s mouth, and twice she tried to speak, but was unable. “Phœbe,” she began at length, “Phœbe has been very unkind to me, Miss Avesham. And I felt--I felt I could not rest without telling you about it. It was my fault, she said, that--Oh, dear me, dear me!” And Miss Clifford gasped once or twice, like a person coming up after a long dive, and burst into tears. In a moment Jeannie was by her.