“If I must give a name, I shall call myself Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. But I shall do my best to avoid giving any name. And you will do your best to avoid making a mistake, by only asking for me as your wife. Is there any thing else you want to know?” “Yes.” “Be quick about it! What is it?” “How am I to know you have got away from here?” “If you don’t hear from me in half an hour from the time when I have left you, you may be sure I have got away. Hush!” Two voices, in conversation, were audible at the bottom of the steps--Lady Lundie’s voice and Sir Patrick’s. Anne pointed to the door in the back wall of the summer-house. She had just pulled it to again, after Geoffrey had passed through it, when Lady Lundie and Sir Patrick appeared at the top of the steps. CHAPTER THE SIXTH. THE SUITOR. LADY LUNDIE pointed significantly to the door, and addressed herself to Sir Patrick’s private ear. “Observe!” she said. “Miss Silvester has just got rid of somebody.” Sir Patrick deliberately looked in the wrong direction, and (in the politest possible manner) observed--nothing. Lady Lundie advanced into the summer-house. Suspicious hatred of the governess was written legibly in every line of her face. Suspicious distrust of the governess’s illness spoke plainly in every tone of her voice. “May I inquire, Miss Silvester, if your sufferings are relieved?” “I am no better, Lady Lundie.” “I beg your pardon?” “I said I was no better.” “You appear to be able to stand up. When _I_ am ill, I am not so fortunate. I am obliged to lie down.”’ “I will follow your example, Lady Lundie. If you will be so good as to excuse me, I will leave you, and lie down in my own room.” She could say no more. The interview with Geoffrey had worn her out; there was no spirit left in her to resist the petty malice of the woman, after bearing, as she had borne it, the brutish indifference of the man. In another moment the hysterical suffering which she was keeping down would have forced its way outward in tears. Without waiting to know whether she was excused or not, without stopping to hear a word more, she left the summer-house. Lady Lundie’s magnificent black eyes opened to their utmost width, and blazed with their most dazzling brightness. She appealed to Sir Patrick, poised easily on his ivory cane, and looking out at the lawn-party, the picture of venerable innocence. “After what I have already told you, Sir Patrick, of Miss Silvester’s conduct, may I ask whether you consider _that_ proceeding at all extraordinary?” The old gentleman touched the spring in the knob of his cane, and answered, in the courtly manner of the old school: “I consider no proceeding extraordinary Lady Lundie, which emanates from your enchanting sex.”