It was rather a relief to be alone for a little while. She was, in a general way, fond of amusement and society, accustomed and not indifferent to a fair share of admiration. But lately she had not had heart or spirit to enter into things as usual; Gertrude's coldness had already, it seemed to her, affected the tone of others; she said to herself she was getting old, "nearly five and twenty," and "passee," and ill-tempered, and it would not be long before Beauchamp would congratulate himself heartily on not having been taken at his word by her. "I almost wish sometimes I could have cared for him as he cares or thinks he cares for me. But it would have been dreadful to have so vexed Gertrude after all her kindness to me. It is bad enough to feel that she distrusts me without my deserving it, but that would have been worse. No; I should not like to care for him; but it is very lonely sometimes." She was pacing slowly up and down a sheltered terrace walk that ran along one side of the house. On to this walk opened by glass doors several of the rooms most used by the family, the library, the morning-room, Mrs Eyrecourt's little boudoir, and between these glass doors were placed here and there garden seats against the wall. Roma got tired of walking up and down; though still only February it was temptingly mild, so she sat down on one of the seats without observing that the glass door nearest it was slightly ajar. Voices from within reached her, she heard the sound of her own name; then before she had time to realise what she was doing, two or three sentences fell with cruel distinctness upon her ears. "It is very difficult for me to think it is Roma's fault. She has assured me so earnestly that there was nothing of the kind on her part, I cannot bear to think how she must have deceived me." The voice was Gertrude's; the tone anxious and irresolute. Then came the answer; it was Mrs Chancellor who was speaking now. "Ah, yes; that is the worst part of it. I can feel for you, my dear Gertrude; I can indeed. As to the affair itself, had she only been frank about it, one could hardly have blamed her. A man of dear Beauchamp's attractions, thrown so much in her society--and she, of course she is handsome in a certain style, and her singing is really good, though not _quite_ refined enough to suit my taste; but--what was I saying? Oh yes, of course, she, you know, is no longer very young, and has nothing, literally nothing you say, to look forward to? It is only too natural. It is most distressing altogether, and how perplexing for Beauchamp, dear fellow. A moment's folly or weakness and a young man may be ruined, ruined in a sense of course, for life! Ah yes, I see it all, far more clearly than can be possible for one so young and unsuspicious as you, dearest Gertrude. But I do think Beauchamp has behaved beautifully, from what you tell me, _beautifully_. And--"