If Lady Mary's suspicions had been lulled to sleep during luncheon, they had been now most thoroughly reawakened. She, like her daughter, had overheard the conversation between Sylla and Lionel upon the latter's first arrival. She had always had misgivings that the relations between the two would change into something much warmer, to the downfall of her own hopes. She was annoyed with herself for having accepted the hand of amity extended by her ancient antagonist. She felt sure that the battle that she pictured to herself on that night at the Grange, when she had first heard of the relationship between Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley, was already begun. She had a horrible conviction that she was once more destined to undergo the bitterness of offering her congratulations to her successful opponent. What cruel fatality had ordained that whenever she had a daughter to settle, Mrs. Wriothesley should invariably appear upon the scene with a niece? And in the anguish of her spirit she gave way to very harsh thoughts concerning poor Sylla's conduct. If she could but have divested herself of all prejudice, and looked on matters with dispassionate eyes, she would have seen, as Pansey Cottrell had told her at Todborough, that things were travelling much in the way she wished them. At this very moment, when she is inwardly raging against Mrs. Wriothesley, Lionel Beauchamp is undoubtedly paying at least as much, if not more, attention to Blanche than he is to Miss Chipchase; but the spectacles of prejudice are never neutral-tinted. However, it is time to leave; and Lady Mary, rising, signals her daughter, and makes her adieu. "I really have no patience with that girl," said Lady Mary, when she found herself outside. "I think her making a present to a young man like Mr. Beauchamp is going a great deal more than half-way." "Oh, I don't know, mamma," replied Blanche; "she has known him all her life; and you know he did save her bracelet." "Very indelicate of her ever to have made such a wager," retorted Lady Mary, quite trumpeting in her wrath. "I have known you bet yourself, mamma," rejoined Blanche; "and I think she was perhaps carried away by the excitement of the occasion. I wonder what it is that she has given him?" It was curious, that although Miss Bloxam was as uncomfortable concerning that gift as her mother, she still took Sylla's part regarding it. She was a proud girl, and it was probable that she shrank from owning even to her mother that it could possibly matter to her what presents any lady might choose to bestow on Mr. Beauchamp. CHAPTER IX. SATURDAY AT HURLINGHAM.