The next morning Miss West resolved upon a bold step. She pleaded a headache as an excuse from attending Sandown, and as soon as she had seen her parent safely off the premises, she hurried upstairs, dressed herself very plainly, put a black veil in her pocket--also a well-filled purse--and, walking to a short distance, took a hansom for Waterloo Station. This time she travelled first class, of course, and hired a fly to take her to the farm--at least, to the lane leading to the farm--and there to wait, in case Mr. Holt was unable to drive her back. She desired to give every one an agreeable surprise. Mrs. Holt, who was in the kitchen shelling peas into a yellow bowl, gave a little scream when she beheld Mrs. Wynne standing on the threshold, between her and the sunshine, and, upsetting half the pods, rushed at her hospitably, wiping her hands on her apron, and assuring her that “she was more welcome than the flowers in May. Baby was well, and growing a rare size, but Mr. Wynne was out; he and the farmer had gone away together just after breakfast, and would not be back till late, and did ever anything happen so contrary?” Her square brow knit into lines of disappointment when the young lady, in answer to her eager queries, informed her that she was not come to stay--that, in fact, she was going to Ireland in two or three days with her father and a party of friends. He had taken the shooting of a large estate in the south, and was most anxious to inspect it. “Ay, dearie, dearie me!” said Mrs. Holt, after an eloquent pause, “and what _will_ Mr. Wynne say to that? I’m thinking he will not be for letting you go,” and she shook her head dubiously. This was precisely the subject that Madeline had come to discuss with him, and he was away for the day. How excessively provoking and tiresome! Mrs. Kane had been won over with money, Mrs. Harper with valuable presents, and the hint of an invitation to stay at Belgrave Square. There remained but Laurence to deal with. He really must learn to be patient--to wait for the auspicious moment when, having gained the whole of her father’s confidence and affection, he began to realize that she was so absolutely necessary to his happiness and to his social success that he could never spare her. Then, and not till then, would she throw herself into his arms and confess to him that she was married to Laurence Wynne. Laurence and the baby would be brought to Belgrave Square in triumph, and share her lot in basking in the sun of wealth and luxury. This was Mrs. Wynne’s nice little programme, and ten times a day she repeated to herself this formula--“Laurence must wait.” She kissed her little boy, and praised his rosy cheeks, and asked many questions about her husband, and was so surprised to hear that he wrote for hours and hours; but Mrs. Holt remarked that she took no interest now in the chickens, calves, or dogs--or, what she once found irresistible, the dairy!