“No!” the other broke in, her face flushing with sudden anger. “See you, Louisa? What do I care for seeing you? It is my girl I wish to see, that I’m come to see, that I’m going to see! I’m her mother, fetch her to me! I have a right to see her, and I will see her! I demand her! If you do not go for her——” “Sybil! Sybil!” Lady Lansdowne cried, thoroughly alarmed by her friend’s violence. “For Heaven’s sake be calm!” “Calm?” Lady Vermuyden answered. “Do you cease to dictate to me, and do as I bid you! Go, and fetch her, or I will go myself and claim her before all his friends. He has no heart. He never had a heart! It’s sawdust,” with a hysterical laugh. “But he has pride and I’ll trample on it! I’ll tread it in the mud—if you don’t fetch her! Are you going, Miss Gravity? We used to call you Miss Gravity, I remember. You were always,” with a faint sneer, “a bit of a prude, my dear!” Miss Gravity! What long-forgotten trifles, what thoughts of youth the nickname brought back to Lady Lansdowne’s recollection. What wars of maidens’ wits, and half-owned jealousies, and light resentments, and sunny days of pique and pleasure! Her heart, never anything but soft, under the mask of her great-lady’s manner, waxed sore and pitiful. Yet how was she to do the other’s bidding? How could she betray Sir Robert’s confidence? How—— Someone was coming—really coming this time. She looked round. “I’ll give you five minutes!” Lady Sybil whispered. “Five minutes, Louisa! Remember!” And when Lady Lansdowne turned again to her, she had vanished among the laurels. XXII WOMEN’S HEARTS Lady Lansdowne walked slowly away in a state of perplexity, from which the monotonous lilt of the band which was now playing quadrille music did nothing to free her. Whether Sybil Vermuyden were dying or not, it was certain that she was ill. Disease had laid its hand beyond mistaking on that once beautiful face; the levity and wit which had formerly dazzled beholders now gleamed but fitfully and with such a ghastly light as the corpse candle gives forth. The change was great since Lady Lansdowne had seen her in the coach at Chippenham; and it might well be that if words of forgiveness were to be spoken, no time was to be lost. Old associations, a mother’s feelings for a mother, pity, all urged Lady Lansdowne to compliance with her request; nor did the knowledge that the woman, who had once queened it so brilliantly in this place, was now lurking on the fringe of the gay crowd, athirst for a sight of her child, fail to move a heart which all the jealousies of a Whig coterie had not hardened or embittered.