Emma rose gladly, for she felt the moral atmosphere of the dining-room to be in a somewhat volcanic state, and was terribly afraid lest a few more sparks of Ellen’s sarcastic wit should produce an explosion. For half an hour or so they sauntered through the old-fashioned shrubberies and pleasure grounds, the charms of which their overrun and neglected condition seemed to enhance, at least at this season of the year. Then it was that Ellen confided to her companion that she expected to be married about the middle of November, and that she hoped that Emma would come to town with her some time in October to assist her in completing her trousseau. Emma hesitated for a moment, for she could not disguise from herself the fact that her friendship for Ellen, at no time a very deep one, had cooled; indeed, she was not sure whether she quite trusted her. In the end, however, she assented, subject to her father’s consent, for she had very rarely been in London, and she felt that a change of scene and ideas would do her good. Then they turned back to the house, to find that the dog-cart was standing at the door. “One word, my dear,” said Ellen, halting: “I am so glad that Henry is going to stop at Monk’s Lodge. He is a most curious creature, and I hope that you will be patient with him, and forgive him all his oddities.” “Really, Ellen,” answered Emma, with suppressed irritation, “I have nothing to forgive Sir Henry, and of course I shall be glad to see him whenever he chooses to come.” “I am by no means sure,” reflected Ellen, as she watched the Levingers drive away, “but that this young lady has got more spirit than I gave her credit for. Henry had better look out, or he will lose his chance, for I fancy that she will become as difficult to deal with in the future as he has been in the past.” CHAPTER XXII. AN INTERLUDE.