“There _are_ no disagreeables in this case, and if there were, I should not be afraid of them!” she says, with a quiet dignity which is felt to carry a rebuke with it, “I will gladly come.” “You _are_ a trump!” cries Mrs. Prince, breaking, in the excitement of her relief, into a phrase, the old-fashioned slanginess of which the elegance of her calmer moments would disapprove, and making a snatch, which meets only the empty air, at Miss Carew’s hands. “Let us be off this very instant, or we shall find Féo running about the passages, though her temperature is up at 102, and she is as yellow as a guinea!” “I _must_ see my uncle and Rupert first,” says Lavinia, so resolutely that her visitor recognizes it is useless to contest the point. “Hadn’t you better return without me, and I will follow as soon as I can?” “You will not go back upon your word?” asks the other suspiciously. Then verifying a look of indignant repudiation in the girl’s eyes, she adds, “No; I am sure you will not! Well, perhaps it had better be as you say. I will send back the victoria at once for you; or would you prefer the brough-am?” Its owner gives the vehicle in question the value of two good syllables. “If it looks the least like rain, I will send the brough-am.” She bustles off as she speaks, one rustle and jingle of gratitude, relief, and jet; but not before she has seen Lavinia speeding before her through the churchyard back to her home. Did she but know how much the hurry in the girl’s veins towards their common goal exceeds her own, her urgency would die, smothered in stupefaction. Rupert is in his room, guiding and aiding the footman in the packing of his clothes, and of the few volumes and knick-knacks without which he never moves. At her call he at once joins her in the passage, leaving, as she notes with relief, the door ajar behind him. “I have come to say good-bye,” she says brusquely, still breathless from her run. “_Good-bye!_” he repeats. “Why, we need not start for an hour yet.” “No,” she answers with the same short-breathed determination in her voice; “but _I_ must. I am going to the Chestnuts for the night. Mrs. Prince has been here, and has forced me into it.” The words are strictly and literally true; and yet their utterer feels the immenseness of the falsity their reluctance implies as she speaks them. His face expresses surprise, but no disapproval. “They want me to help to amuse Captain Binning,” continues Lavinia, still with that lying disinclination for the proposed occupation in her tone; “and persuade Féo that they are not killing him with neglect in her absence!” “_In her absence!_” repeats Rupert, with an accent of the most acute astonishment. “Do you expect me to believe that that angel of mercy has forsaken her post?” “She has got the jaundice!”