None could put down insolence more effectually than Bettina Davenal. She gave the man a look, and swept past him. "Show me to your mistress, man." And somehow the man was subdued to do as he was bid, and to ask quite humbly, "What name, ma'am?" "Miss Davenal." He opened the door of a room on the right, and Miss Davenal, never more haughty, never more stately, stepped into it. She saw it was of good proportions, she saw it was elegantly furnished; and Caroline, in a flutter of black ribbons on her pretty morning toilette, was sitting toying with a late breakfast. She started up with a scream. Believing that the lady before her was safe at Hallingham, perhaps the scream was excusable. "Aunt! Is it really you? Whatever brings you in London?" Miss Bettina neglected the question to survey the room again. She had surveyed the hall as she came in; she caught a glimpse of another room at the back: all fitted up fit for a duke and duchess. "Where's Mark Cray?" she cried. "Mark has been gone out ages ago, aunt. He is deep in business now. The operations have begun." "Who took this house?" grimly asked Miss Bettina. "I and Mark." "And what did the furniture cost?" "Oh, I don't know. I don't think Mark has had the bills in yet. Why, aunt?" "_Why!_" returned the indignant lady, in a blaze of anger. "You and your husband are one of two things, Caroline; swindlers or idiots. If you think that strong language, I cannot help it." "Aunt Bettina!" echoed the startled girl, "what are you saying?" "The truth," solemnly replied Miss Bettina. CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOPE DEFERRED. Some weeks went on. The beautiful summer weather had come, and the June sun was upon the streets. Sara Davenal stood at her chamber window looking out on the dusty road. Not in reality seeing it; for the trouble and perplexity at her heart had not lessened, and she had fallen into that habit of gazing outwards in deep thought, noticing nothing. The same habit had characterised Dr. Davenal; but at his daughter's age _he_ had never known any weight of care. For years and years his path had been a smooth one--little else than sunshine. She gazed outwards on the dusty road, on the white pavement, glistening again with its heat, but saw nothing. A looker-on would have said she was an idle girl, standing there to take note of her neighbours' and the street's doings: of the tradespeople calling at the opposite houses, of the servant girls flirting with them as they gave their orders: of the water-cart splashing past the corner along the public highway, but neglecting this quiet nook: of everything, in short, there was to see and be seen. How mistaken that looker-on was he could never know. Poor Sara Davenal might have been the sole living object on a broad desert plain, for all she saw of the moving panorama around her.