Had I again omitted the sign of my dependent situation, the "sir?" I, who had resolved, with my then burning face (burning again now), never so to offend for the future—I supposed that that was the meaning of Madame de Mellissie; I suppose so still, to this hour. I had spoken as though I were the equal of Mr. Chandos: I must not—I _would_ not—so offend again. "Emily, my love, you are welcome." A little woman had entered the room, and was holding Madame de Mellissie in her arms. It was Lady Chandos. She wore a small and pretty widow's cap of net, a rich but soft black silk dress, and black lace mittens. Her nose was sharp, and her small face had a permanent redness, the result of disturbed health. She was not like her daughter, not half so beautiful; and she was not like her handsome son, unless it was in the subdued, sad expression. She quite started back when her eyes fell on me, evidently not prepared to see a stranger. "Miss Hereford, mamma; a young lady whom I have engaged as companion. Alfred would not suffer me to travel alone." Lady Chandos turned to me with a pleasant smile, but it struck me as being a forced one. "I think you look more fit to take care of Miss Hereford, Emily, than Miss Hereford of you," she said. "I am the elder by some two or three years, if you mean that, mamma. Oh! it was just a whim of my husband's." More questioning on either side; just the information sought for when relatives meet after a long absence. Emily answered carelessly and lightly; and I sat behind, unnoticed. Hill was called. Hill was still at Chandos, lady's-maid and housekeeper, a confidential servant. She came forward, wearing a dark brown gown and handsome black silk apron, her grey hair banded under her close white lace cap. Lady Chandos spoke with her in an undertone, most likely consulting what chamber I should be placed in, for Hill turned her eyes upon me and looked cross.