Celia folded her letter, addressed it, and sat thinking. How would they receive it? She pictured Lucy rushing into the parlor, waving it above her head, and Isabella languidly rebuking her for her rough entrance. She could guess the Squire's comments on many things she had said, and she knew that the very mention of the Pretender would call forth some strong participles. Madam Passmore would fold up the letter with "Dear child!" and drop it into her ample pocket. Cicely would courtesy and ask if Mrs. Celia was a-coming. One month more, and then surely Lady Ingram must be satisfied. But then came another thought. She would be very sorry to leave Philip and Patient, even to return to Ashcliffe. Would Lady Ingram be induced to let her take Patient with her? As to Philip, surely he could visit her if he chose. "Mademoiselle!" said the voice of Thérèse beside her. Celia turned, and saw that Thérèse was holding a little pink note, which having delivered, the French maid departed. She broke the seal, and discovered to her surprise that the note was from Lady Ingram herself. It ran thus: "MY DAUGHTER,--I shall not be able to receive you this afternoon, as I am suffering from megrims.[3] I will send Philip to keep you company. I wish you to know that when I return to Paris, which will be in four days, I will lead you to kiss the hand of the King of France. After this you will be able to enter into company. "CLAUDE INGRAM." Celia dropped the note in the trepidation which it caused her. She had no desire to be presented to the originator of the Dragonnades. And what was "entering into company?" She was sure it meant what she would not like, and might think actually wrong. "Do you drive out this afternoon, Madam?" asked Patient, appearing at the door. "No, Patient," said Celia, hesitatingly, for she was still thinking of the note. "Mr. Philip will drink a dish of chocolate with me here." "Yes, Madam," replied Patient, and disappeared. Celia changed her dress with a heavy heart, and came back into her boudoir, where preparations for the chocolate were made. She found Mr. Philip Ingram very comfortably established on her sofa. "Good evening, Madam," observed that gentleman, without any alteration in his attitude of repose. "Philip, what is it to go into company?" "To dress fine and tell lies. Why?" Celia gave him the note in answer. "Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now--the megrims are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest." "What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment. "Only my Lady-Mother's style of cipher correspondence, my dear. She gives an occasional _séance_ to her spiritual advisers, on which occasion she tells the world--fibs." "You do not really mean it?" "Of course I do." "But what does she do?"