He left the room as he spoke, having, as usual, when he lost his temper, said more than he meant or really felt, regretting already that he had said so much, and at the same time mortified by the consciousness of his rudeness and unkindness. Eugenia remained where he had left her, some degrees more miserable than she had been before this conversation, though such painful scenes were not, unfortunately, so rare as to give any fresh direction to the current of her unhappiness. "Yes," she thought to herself, "it is all true--it has been a wretched mistake for him too. It is all true, but ah! how terrible for him to be the one to say it." The next day brought Mrs Eyrecourt--Mrs Eyrecourt, in brilliant spirits and beautiful attire. For the correct number of months of mourning for her cousins having expired some time ago, she had deserted the trailing crape in which her sister-in-law had last seen her, for less lugubrious plumage. And on Eugenia's present mood, unfortunately, the bright though well assorted colours struck as discordantly as last year's sable on the feelings of the bride. But there was an unexpected pleasure in store for Beauchamp's wife. Out of the fly containing the luggage and the maids a small figure appeared. It was Floss--Floss, smaller, queerer, greener-eyed, and more defiant than ever; but internally, nevertheless, in a state of intense excitement and delight at the thought of seeing Aunty 'Genia again, hearing more dolls' stories, possibly--who could say?--seeing those venerable ladies themselves. "Floss wouldn't come in the carriage with her uncle and me," said Gertrude, turning to Eugenia. "She is more of a little savage than ever, I fear." "Poor Floss!" thought her aunt, as she kissed her.