Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself; but what would they think of her, was what conscience said in her. What would they think of her?--and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by--though this she was unaware of--the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in the _abandon_ of her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard, it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must come to know what it was, to comfort her, even to scold her, it did not matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door, no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of it all? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and