“What did they mean by it?” Mrs. Westgate sought to know when they had gone. “They meant to do the friendly thing,” Bessie surmised, “because we’re going to meet them.” “It’s too late to do the friendly thing,” Mrs. Westgate replied almost grimly. “They meant to overawe us by their fine manners and their grandeur; they meant to make you _lâcher prise_.” “_Lâcher prise_? What strange things you say!” the girl sighed as fairly for pain. “They meant to snub us so that we shouldn’t dare to go to Branches,” Mrs. Westgate substituted with confidence. “On the contrary,” said Bessie, “the Duchess offered to show me the place herself.” “Yes, you may depend upon it she won’t let you out of her sight. She’ll show you the place from morning till night.” “You’ve a theory for everything,” our young woman a little more helplessly allowed. “And you apparently have none for anything.” “I saw no attempt to ‘overawe’ us,” Bessie nevertheless persisted. “Their manners weren’t fine.” “They were not even good!” Mrs. Westgate declared. Her sister had a pause, but in a few moments claimed the possession of an excellent theory. “They just came to look at me!” she brought out as with much ingenuity. Mrs. Westgate did the idea justice; she greeted it with a smile and pronounced it a credit to a fresh young mind; while in reality she felt that the girl’s scepticism, or her charity, or, as she had sometimes called it appropriately, her idealism, was proof against irony. Bessie, however, remained meditative all the rest of that day and well on into the morrow. She privately ached—almost as under a dishonour—with the aftersense of having been inspected in that particular way. On the morrow before luncheon Mrs. Westgate, having occasion to go out for an hour, left her sister writing a letter. When she came back she met Lord Lambeth at the door of the hotel and in the act of leaving it. She thought he looked considerably embarrassed; he certainly, she said to herself, had no spring. “I’m sorry to have missed you. Won’t you come back?” she asked. “No—I can’t. I’ve seen your sister. I can never come back.” Then he looked at her a moment and took her hand. “Good-bye, Mrs. Westgate—you’ve been very kind to me.” And with what she thought a strange sad air on his handsome young face he turned away. She went in only to find Bessie still writing her letter; find her, that is, seated at the table with the arrested pen in her hand. She put her question after a moment. “Lord Lambeth has been here?” Then Bessie got up and showed her a pale serious face—bending it on her for some time, confessing silently and, a little, pleading. “I told him,” the girl said at last, “that we couldn’t go to Branches.” Mrs. Westgate gave a gasp of temporary disappointment. “He might have waited,” she nevertheless smiled, “till one had seen the Castle.” An hour afterwards she spoke again. “I do wish, you know, you might have accepted him.”