At another moment this exegesis, pregnant in its unconscious brevity of the relations between mother and daughter, would have made Lavinia laugh; but at the present moment a horrible suspicion freezes all tendency to mirth. “Féodorovna!”--looking round in bewildered apprehension. “Why, where is she?” The visitor is so obviously in no hurry to answer, that Miss Carew’s question repeats itself with an imperativeness that drags out the reluctant and frightened response. “Well, my dear, you must not scold me, as I see you are inclined; or, if you do, it will be grossly unjust. You know what she is when she takes a thing into her head, and I am bound to say she does feel, and has felt, very keen sympathy for him in his trouble; indeed, we all have.” She pauses, weakly hoping for some expression of thanks or reassurance; but Lavinia only stares at her with confusing sternness in her aghast blue eyes. “And when she heard that the things had come back--poor Bill’s things--I believe the news came through the servants--nothing would serve her but that she must see Sir George, to tell him how much she felt for him. You know that she has that curious _personal_ feeling about the whole of our Army in South Africa, as if it belonged to her in a way, and she always rated Bill very highly.” Again the mother pauses, with a hope--but a fainter one than its predecessor--that this tribute to the dead may have a mollifying effect upon her inconveniently silent and staring young hostess. “And where is she now?” asks Lavinia, with an accent that makes Mrs. Prince regret her silence. “She said she would go to Sir George’s room to wait for him; that she was sure he would prefer that there should be no witnesses to their meeting. Oh, do not go after her!”--with a despairing clutch at Lavinia’s raiment as the latter makes a precipitate movement doorwards. “It is too late now; and, after all, Sir George, poor man, is very well able to take care of himself. And if he gives her a real good snub, why, so much the better.” Lavinia pauses, arrested by the something of sound sense that leavens her companion’s flurried speech, and with a dawning pity in her relenting eyes. “And there is something I want so much to say to you,” goes on the poor woman, hanging on to the skirt of her advantage, though wisely relinquishing her material grasp. “You know that I always bring my troubles to you, and I am in a fresh one now.” “About her, of course?” “Oh yes; about her, of course. I suppose that but for her things would have gone almost too smoothly with Mr. Prince and me. I suppose that the Almighty sees we need her to prevent us getting too--too uppish.” The adjective is scarcely on the level of refinement held before her own eyes by the poor lady, but the tear that moistens condones it.