“There,” said Rosalie, and she touched his arm. “I went through there.” “Strange,” said he. “I never saw that door before. How did you open it?” “With the key of my uncle’s safe. But that has gone. I don’t know what I did with it. I was in such a hurry to get through and close it after me.” “And the path led you to a low white house with a verandah?” “Yes. Let us return. It is cold here. You’ll give your horses rheumatism if you keep them in so damp a place.” “You are not acclimatised. But we will go. Strange I never noticed that door. As for the others, I suppose if they did notice it, they imagined I had done so too.” When they were back again in the house, which seemed cheerful after the intense cold without, Mr. Barringcourt said: “Will you have tea before you go?” “No, thank you. Our last tea together had not a very pleasant ending, though it began so charmingly. We’re like most people—best friends when parted.” “Then I may not see you again till Festival night.” “Do you still renew the invitation?” He laughed. “If I were not very contrary, you would make me angry. You harp so constantly upon an unreasoning subject.” “Ah!” said she suddenly. “Let me see Mariana. Send for her.” “Not to-night” “Yes, to-night. I will not keep her longer than a minute. Just to see if she is just the same.” “She has not altered. Take my word for it.” “You said if I came here I should see her.” “You must have misunderstood me. I never said so.” “I—I don’t believe you ever mean me to see Mariana again,” she said. “Indeed? What makes you think so?” and he laughed again, not at all kindly. “Because you know quite well that I should do my very best to persuade her to come away with me.” Rosalie bowed, and swept away toward the door, and when she got there she said to Everard, quite loud enough for Mr. Barringcourt to hear, who still stood in the hall: “When next you see Mariana, please give her my love, and tell her I asked to see her, but was not successful.” He bowed solemnly and let her pass, but took no further notice than if he had been made of stone. CHAPTER XXX FESTIVAL Now came Christmas night. On Lucifram Christmas Day wasn’t marred by any subsequent church-going. It was nothing better than a heathen feast; the Serpent had nothing to do with it. On that day the children went simply wild, and gave themselves incredible airs; demanded their best toys, gorged oranges and apples, made themselves ill with plum-pudding, demanded their full share of turkey, and got it, and looked with expectant eyes on the iced cake when it appeared. Just as if they’d been starving all day! The little wretches!