Richard looked after her with a disgusted air, and then his glance reverted to Mrs. Fiander, whose beautiful round arm was still embedded in curds, and whose face, a little paler than its wont, continued to be full of ire. What could this trifling mistake matter after all to such a rich woman, a woman who would soon be richer still? Besides being cold-blooded and self-interested, she was evidently miserly; she was, moreover, distinctly bad-tempered. His imagination, already warped by the revulsion of feeling consequent on his uncle’s disclosures, was ready to take alarm at every trivial detail. Rosalie’s pallor, and the slightly drawn look on her face—both due in reality to a sleepless night, resulting from an unaccountable perturbation of mind—were immediately attributed to an acute and unreasonable disappointment over an insignificant money loss. The eyes which had gazed on Rosalie so ardently yesterday were now busily tracing lines of fancied meanness in her face; those frowning brows surely revealed the shrew, the compressed lips spoke of parsimony. When that lovely colour faded, and those clear-cut features had become coarsened by age and self-imposed toil, what would remain? None of that beauty of soul which he had thought to find there. ‘Well, well,’ remarked Isaac placidly, ‘these accidents will happen, but I would n’t advise ’ee to be cast down by ’em. These here curds d’ seem to be a-settin’ all right. I know how ’t is wi’ young folks. A body has to stand over them all the time. Why, when we be a-shearin’ I d’ scarce dare go in for a bit o dinner for fear o’ findin’ them poor ewes snipped to pieces when I come back.’ Rosalie jerked the mass of curds up with additional impetuosity, but made no reply. ‘My nevvy,’ pursued Isaac, ‘thought he’d like to drop in an’ pay his respects to ’ee, my dear, an’ inquire how you was a-feelin’ arter the accident yesterday.’ Here he nudged Richard as a tacit reproach for his muteness. ‘I hope,’ said the young man formally, ‘that you are none the worse for the shock, Mrs. Fiander?’ The blue eyes shot up an inquiring glance, and the industrious arm paused for a moment. What was the meaning of this altered tone, and why was the gaze now bent on her fraught with such cold disapproval? They had parted like old friends, and she had looked forward more than she knew to their next meeting. ‘Thank you,’ she returned, in a tone almost as frigid as Richard’s own; ‘my nerves are not easily upset.’ She believed the statement to be true; yet the equilibrium of her system was at that moment, if she had but realised it, very seriously disturbed. ‘Have ’ee sent for Nigger, Mrs. F.?’ inquired Isaac. ‘I sent James Bundy to look after him. He may not be fit to move for a day or two.’