Miss Jilian soon recovered from her faint in the great hall at Hardacre, thanks to sprinklings with scent and the immediate application of a smelling-bottle to her nose. Miss Hardacre had seen nothing of the foolish quarrel between Dick Wilson and Mr. Lot, and with true discretion she insisted on dancing the night out, vowing that she had only temporarily succumbed to the heat. A few words passed between brother and sister before the musicians struck up in the gallery, and Mr. Lancelot led out his sister to a country-dance. Though Sir Peter busied himself ostentatiously in seeing that certain of the hall windows were opened for the sake of ventilation, there was much secret wagging of tongues amid the company, much bobbing of plumes, much wise gossip. Several reasons were spread abroad to account for the affair and the sudden departure of the party for Rodenham. Miss Jilian, however, rose bravely superior to the past, smiled and swept courtesies, drank wine to give herself a color. She even coquetted with Mr. Gedge, one of her brother’s boon comrades, for the rest of the evening, carrying her amber head very high, and showing no symptoms of cowardice or distress. The following morning, however, Miss Hardacre was very viciously afflicted with the vapors. She kept her bed, would not so much as suffer her maid to draw her curtains, and left untouched the chocolate the sympathetic handmaid pressed upon her. Her one command was that Sir Peter should be informed that she was vaporish, and would be pleased to see him if he would walk up-stairs. The baronet, after finishing his breakfast and swearing at Lot for making such a pother the preceding night, gathered himself together and tramped up the broad staircase to pay his respects to his daughter. The red curtains were half drawn across the windows of Miss Jilian’s room. An odor of lavender pervaded the atmosphere, and the four-post bed, with its pink-and-white hangings, looked like a shrine where love might claim sanctuary. Miss Hardacre’s ball dress lay thrown across a chair. Her cosmetics and wash-balls were untouched on the table below her mirror. The fair Jilian herself lay back on her belaced pillows, looking rather thin and old, her tawny hair in a tangle, her mouth adroop in her white face. Sir Peter thrust a pair of satin slippers aside with his foot, gurgled, took snuff, tossed sundry belaced vestments from a chair, and sat himself down beside the bed. The baronet gazed at his daughter with stupid gravity, and heaved a sigh under his snuffy waistcoat. “Well, lass, how are you feeling?” There was some rustling of the belaced bed-gown, a pair of shoulders began to twitch spasmodically, a handkerchief fluttered out, a pathetic signal of distress. “Damn it, Jill, don’t let’s play at snivelling.”