‘No, certainly not,’ said Eleanor, hastily. ‘I will not wear them.’ Then, seeing a look of surprise at her vehemence, she added, hesitatingly, ‘I will carry them in my hand. I—it would be a pity to spoil the bouquet by taking any out of it; it is so beautifully arranged. Am I ready now? I will go down.’ She went into the drawing-room, framing in her mind some kind of apology for being so late. But on entering the room she found that Magdalen was not alone. Otho was there with her. He was standing on the hearthrug, ready dressed for the evening, with his back against the mantelpiece, and his hands clasped behind him. There was a smile of anything but a genial nature upon his lips, and his eyes were fixed upon Miss Wynter with an expression which struck Eleanor instantly as being unusual, but which she could not quite fathom. Magdalen was reposing in a low chair, with her fan closed in her hands, which were lightly folded one over the other. She was tranquil, calm, unmoved; her marble eyelids a little drooped, and the faintest smile upon her lips. She was looking marvellously handsome, in a black velvet gown, and with scarlet geraniums in her breast and hair. ‘I am sorry to have been so long in coming, Miss Wynter. I really was kept upstairs; but I see Otho has been with you, so you have not been entirely alone.’ ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had,’ responded Magdalen nonchalantly, as she rose to shake hands with Eleanor. ‘Otho and I have been quarrelling, and when he quarrels no one can be more nasty.’ Eleanor smiled slightly, taking it for a jest, and one in rather doubtful taste; but she was enlightened when Otho, with a scowl significant of anything but jesting, said with something like a snarl in his voice— ‘You are right, Magdalen. “Nasty” is the word, and nasty you shall find me, since this is the way you treat me.’ ‘Really,’ said Magdalen, with a taunting little laugh, ‘how absurdly you talk! Treat you in this way! You are too ridiculous!’ Eleanor stood looking from one to the other. Magdalen was still standing, speaking lightly, in an attitude of careless grace, and with a disdainful little smile upon her lips; but it seemed to Eleanor that there was a strained look in her eyes. ‘Have you been really quarrelling?’ she asked, doubtfully. ‘Why, he thinks so much of you.’ ‘I did,’ said Otho; ‘but it’s d—d difficult to go on thinking so much of a woman who carries on as she does. She’s in my house now, and I hope I know what is due to my guests; but wait till we are out of it, and on neutral ground, that’s all.’ ‘Oh, Otho!’ began his sister, shocked. But he had walked sullenly to the door, and opened it. Then he turned and looked towards them again. ‘Remember, Magdalen, you shall pay me with interest for every bit of this night’s work, and that before long.’