Thurston went over and sat down on the lounge near the fire, his head on his hand, in a hopeless attitude. It was becoming worse and worse. She persisted in her defiance and contempt of him, showing it openly to her family. She had no compunction for what she had done—none. Before Stillwater’s arrival, he had allowed himself to think of her coming to him, asking prettily for forgiveness, or even one look from her deep-blue eyes would have been enough. He would have taken her then, so gladly, so thankfully, to his heart. If he had reproached her, it would have been tenderly—the chiding which is in itself love. If she had made one step towards him, he would have met her with three. But she would give him no chance to show her how freely, how generously, he could forgive for the asking. It is easy for love to ask forgiveness of love. But when there is none—this secret wound pricked him sorely. His head sank lower on his hand. "Come on, come on," said Stillwater, persuasively. "She don’t mean anything. And I’ll tell you something—she’s afraid to come home. I know that little, uneasy laugh of hers—with her eyes full of tears. She’s done wrong, she’s sorry, and she wants you to come and make it up. Won’t you come, Thurston—won’t you?" He bent down, looking into the younger man’s face. There was a pathetic appeal in his voice. Thurston shook his head. "When I think of you three old people, helpless against that slip of a girl—it appalls me." Stillwater took his hat and coat from the chair where he had laid them. "Then I’ll tell you what it is—she won’t come home until you do come after her. That’s her ultimatum." Thurston rose. "And this is mine," he answered, sternly. "My mother’s house closes at twelve o’clock, and if she does not return at that time, the doors will be closed for the night." "I’ll tell her," said Stillwater, with an indescribable expression. "I warn you," pausing at the door, "you’re making a very hard time for yourself. Good night." Thurston stood motionless, thinking deeply, for some moments after Stillwater left the room. Then he rang for Jennings. The old man responded, with an anxious expression. "Jennings, Lady Canning may not return to-night," said Thurston, in a measured tone. "She will probably remain with her people. Naturally, she wants to see as much of them as possible." "Yes, yer lordship." "Lock up at the usual hour and go to bed. If she is not here by that time, she will not return." "Yes, yer lordship." After he left the room, as he was crossing the hall, he heard a slow, familiar step, a soft rustle of silk, on the stairs. He looked up with a sudden throb of fear, and saw Lady Canning descending. He knew she thought his little mistress was ill in bed with a headache, and the contingency that she might come home at any moment appalled him. He hurried back to the library. "Milady, sir, milady!" he ejaculated. "She’s coming down the stairs."