“Rubbish!” Lady Sybil exclaimed with petulant impatience. “You nurse? Don’t be silly! Who wants you to nurse me? I want you to amuse me. And you won’t do that by dressing yourself like a dingy death’s-head moth! There, for Heaven’s sake,” with a catch in her voice which went to Mary’s heart, “don’t cry! I’m not strong enough to bear it. Tell me something! Tell me anything to make me laugh. How did you trick Sir Robert, child? How did you escape? That will amuse me,” with a mirthless laugh. “I wish I could see his solemn face when he hears that you are gone!” Mary explained that the summons had found her in London; that her father was not there, but that still she had had to beat down Lady Worcester’s resistance before she could have her way and leave. “I don’t know her,” Lady Sybil said shortly. “She was very kind to me,” Mary answered. “I dare say,” in the same tone. “But she would not let me go until I gave her my address.” Lady Sybil sat up sharply. “And you did that?” she shrieked. “You gave it her?” “I was obliged to give it,” Mary stammered, “or I could not have left London.” “Obliged? Obliged?” Lady Sybil retorted, in the same passionate tone. “Why, you fool, you might have given her fifty addresses! Any address! Any address but this! There!” Lady Sybil continued sullenly, as she sank back and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “You’ve done it now. You’ve excited me. Give me those drops! There! Are you blind? Those! Those! And—and sit farther from me! I can’t breathe with you close to me!” After which, when Mary, almost heartbroken, had given her the medicine, and seated herself in the appointed place, she turned her face to the wall and lay silent and morose, uttering no sound but an occasional sigh of pain. Meantime, to eyes that could read, the room told her story, and told it eloquently. The table beside the couch was strewn with rose-bound Annuals and Keepsakes, and a dozen volumes bearing the labels of more than one library; books opened only to be cast aside. Costly toys and embroidered nothings, vinaigrettes and scent-bottles, lay scattered everywhere; and on other tables, on the mantelpiece, on the floor, a litter of similar trifles elbowed and jostled the gloomy tokens of illness. Near the invalid’s hand lay a miniature in a jewelled frame, while a packet of letters tied with a fragment of gold lace, and a buhl desk half-closed upon a broken fan told the same tale of ennui, and of a vanity which survived the charms on which it had rested. The lesson was not lost on the daughter’s heart. It moved her to purest pity; and presently, wrung by a sigh more painful than usual, she crept to the couch, sank on her knees, and pressed her cool lips to the wasted hand which hung from it. Even then for a time her mother did not move or take notice. But slowly the weary sighs grew more frequent, grew to sobs—how much less poignant!—and her weak arm drew Mary’s head to her bosom.