On entering the house, and going through an upper passage to his room, he is accosted by Betty's maid, who tells him that her ladyship's headache is better; that she is on the sofa in Lady Roupell's boudoir, and that she has expressed a wish to see him as soon as he comes in. He follows with a guilty conscience and a sinking heart. Has he for one moment of his long blissful afternoon remembered the headache, to which alone he owed his freedom; the headache genuine enough--though it took its birth from mortification and spleen--to keep her stretched in pain and solitary darkness the livelong day? She is in semi-darkness still, her windows closed (a headache always makes her chilly); not a glint of apricot cloud or suave blue sky-field reaching her. A sense of pity, largely touched with remorse, comes over him, as he takes her hand, and says softly: 'You are better at last? Come, that is well!' She leaves her hand, languid and rather feverish, lying in his. 'It is time that I should be better!' she says, with an impatient sigh. 'What a day I have had!--our last day!' There is such genuine grief and regret in the accent with which she pronounces the three final words that his remorse deepens; but that increase of self-reproach does not make it the least more possible to him to echo her lamentation. 'I asked Julie how often you had been to inquire after me,' continues she, turning her eyes, innocent to-day of their usual black smouches, interrogatively upon him; 'she said she could not remember.' Talbot blesses the wisely ambiguous maid; and, to hide his confusion, stoops his head over the hand, which he still--since it is evidently expected of him--holds. 'I wish my inquiries could have made you better,' says he, taking--and feeling with shame that he is taking--a leaf out of Julie's book. 'I am afraid that you will not be able to come down to dinner.' 'Oh, but I shall!' returns she sharply. 'Why do you think I shall not? Is the wish father to the thought?' He laughs constrainedly, taking refuge in what is often the best disguise, truth. 'Yes, that is it!' 'Milady would never forgive me,' pursues she, rolling her head restlessly about upon the cushions, 'if I left her to struggle with the natives alone; I am sure I have not the heart to struggle with any one! Oh, how miserable I am! John!'--laying her other hand on his, and clasping it between both hers--'how _am_ I to get through the next fortnight?' Talbot wonders whether the burning blush that he feels searing him all through his body shows in his face, whether he looks the double-faced cur that he feels. Probably he does not, or else the faint light helps him; for she goes on unsuspiciously: