Cecilia made matters worse--with the best intentions. “I’m sure, Mr. Morris, my father was only too glad to give Emily his advice.” Alban remained silent--ungraciously silent as Emily thought, after Mr. Wyvil’s kindness to him. “The thing to regret,” she remarked, “is that Mr. Morris allowed Miss Jethro to leave him without explaining herself. In his place, I should have insisted on knowing why she wanted to prevent me from meeting Mr. Mirabel in this house.” Cecilia made another unlucky attempt at judicious interference. This time, she tried a gentle remonstrance. “Remember, Emily, how Mr. Morris was situated. He could hardly be rude to a lady. And I daresay Miss Jethro had good reasons for not wishing to explain herself.” Francine opened the drawing-room door and heard Cecilia’s last words. “Miss Jethro again!” she exclaimed. “Where is Mr. Mirabel?” Emily asked. “I sent him a message.” “He regrets to say he is otherwise engaged for the present,” Francine replied with spiteful politeness. “Don’t let me interrupt the conversation. Who is this Miss Jethro, whose name is on everybody’s lips?” Alban could keep silent no longer. “We have done with the subject,” he said sharply. “Because I am here?” “Because we have said more than enough about Miss Jethro already.” “Speak for yourself, Mr. Morris,” Emily answered, resenting the masterful tone which Alban’s interference had assumed. “I have not done with Miss Jethro yet, I can assure you.” “My dear, you don’t know where she lives,” Cecilia reminded her. “Leave me to discover it!” Emily answered hotly. “Perhaps Mr. Mirabel knows. I shall ask Mr. Mirabel.” “I thought you would find a reason for returning to Mr. Mirabel,” Francine remarked. Before Emily could reply, one of the maids entered the room with a wreath of roses in her hand. “Mr. Mirabel sends you these flowers, miss,” the woman said, addressing Emily. “The boy told me they were to be taken to your room. I thought it was a mistake, and I have brought them to you here.” Francine, who happened to be nearest to the door, took the roses from the girl on pretense of handing them to Emily. Her jealous vigilance detected the one visible morsel of Mirabel’s letter, twisted up with the flowers. Had Emily entrapped him into a secret correspondence with her? “A scrap of waste paper among your roses,” she said, crumpling it up in her hand as if she meant to throw it away. But Emily was too quick for her. She caught Francine by the wrist. “Waste paper or not,” she said; “it was among my flowers and it belongs to me.” Francine gave up the letter, with a look which might have startled Emily if she had noticed it. She handed the roses to Cecilia. “I was making a wreath for you to wear this evening, my dear--and I left it in the garden. It’s not quite finished yet.” Cecilia was delighted. “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed. “And how very kind of you! I’ll finish it myself.” She turned away to the conservatory.