Cissy is standing in one of the windows, somewhat apart; she gazes out upon the stilly night, and softly cogitates. She cannot quite make up her mind whether she has been most sinned against or sinning; she cannot wholly approve her conduct at dinner, and finds it impossible to divest herself entirely of the idea that Halkett was looking miserable the entire time. But all men make a point of appearing injured when placed in the wrong position, and of course he had not liked her cross-examination of the morning. Yet again, why should he _not_ receive presents from women? What right had she to question act or word of his? No matter what thoughts and hopes she may have encouraged in the secret recesses of her heart, she feels now she has no certain data to go upon to prove that Halkett cares for her beyond all others. Somebody--who was it?--had said he was a flirt. Well, one thing was positive--he should not flirt with _her_. Here Aunt Isabel, slowly rousing, sneezes, and hems audibly, to let her friends know she has not been sleeping. 'Cissy, child,' she says, 'you will be perished over there. Come to the fire and warm yourself.' 'I _am_ warm, thank you, and quite comfortable.' 'My love, I don't believe it' (with extreme mildness); 'it is freezing as hard as it can, and there is always a draught near a window. Come here, when I desire you.' 'Oh, I shall die near that blazing log.' 'And _I_ shall die if you remain over there,' says Aunt Isabel; and carries her point. 'Better I than you, Auntie,' says Miss Mordaunt, and coming over, good-humouredly kneels down beside her kinswoman. 'Cold hands--warm heart,' murmurs the old lady, caressing the soft white fingers that lie upon her lap. 'A troublesome possession,' remarks Mrs Leyton with a lazy smile. 'No one is _really_ happy in this world except he or she who carries an empty bosom.' 'Are _you_ happy?' asks Miss Cissy innocently. 'Almost. The little worn-out article that beats here'--laying her hand over the region of the heart--'has pulsations hardly strong enough to cause me any uneasiness. Now and then I feel a faint pang--not often.' 'I would rather keep my heart, even at the expense of my suffering,' says Cissy warmly. 'She who cannot feel anguish, can know no perfect joy. Without love, life is a mistake, an unutterably stupid gift. That is how _I_ think; but then I am Irish, and therefore of course unreasonable.' 'O no,' says Mrs Leyton graciously. 'The Irish are the most charming people in the world--so light-hearted, so quick to sympathise. Though I have been here only two days, and have asked no questions, I knew you to be Irish before you told me. Most of my friends come from your land; even Captain Halkett is half Irish, his mother being from Galway.'