Before Ann had found a reply, there was the appalling explosion with which laughter which has been denied its usual channel forces the narrows of the nose. The strain had been too great. Nature had asserted herself. Ada had broken down. Before her relatives’ horrified gaze, she abandoned herself to succeeding paroxysms of mirth, to which, to his undying shame, Mr. Barnham began sniggeringly to subscribe. The devastation of gentility was too awful. Mr. Alcock blenched, recovered, turned slowly purple and broke into a gleaming sweat. Ann regarded him as though fascinated. Two red spots of dishonour burned upon May’s cheekbones. Aunt Harriet was making a rattling noise. . . . All the time convulsion after convulsion shook the destructive to her foundations. And Mr. Barnham shook also. “_Aida!_” The rasp in her mother’s tone brought her up short. The former was glaring unutterably. As her daughter’s abominable emotions began to subside, Aunt Harriet turned to her guest. “Hoverwrought,” she said in the tone of one who is publicly excusing whom she intends privately to flay alive. “Takes after ’er father. Shell we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I’m sure you’ld like to take a look at your room, an’ we can ’ave a quiet chat.” “I’ld love to,” said Ann. As she came to the door, she glanced round. Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was savagely employing a service-dressed brother of the golden kerchief. Ada, red-nosed and bloated with exertion, stared blearedly upon the ground. May was regarding the cornice with smouldering eyes. Mr. Barnham appeared to be about to prophesy no good, but evil. “So—so long,” said Ann pleasantly. The others stared back. “Me deer,” said Aunt Harriet, labouring up the stairs, “I want you to feel that this is a nome from ’ome. Merriage is a wrench. One leaves a lovin’ ’ome for a strange country. An’ you do feel strange. I remember me own merriage. Down we goes to a little one-eyed place with never a soul as knew wot a lady was. I tell you I felt that lonely I could ’ave cut me throat. But you’ve no call to do that. You’re among frien’s ’ere that feels as you do an’ likes the ways you like. I give you me word, Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. An’ there’s so much of it to-day.” Arrived at a door upon the first floor, she opened it and passed into a large, dingily furnished bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was bruised and soiled: the threadbare carpet was overlaid with cheap rugs: a voluminous muslin valance swaddled the dressing-table: wardrobe, washstand and bed recalled the several sale-rooms whence they had come: a rusty horse-hair couch sulked in a corner: spotted engravings of Royalty being baptized or married or churched hung upon the walls: a cord of one of the Venetian blinds had broken, and the slats were splayed: a window of the bay was open and admitting something of what seemed to be the uproar of a gigantic fair.