Dinner is over; nothing to look forward to but bed-time. Yah! How dull! A knock comes at the door. Miss Blessington enters with flowers in her hand--jessamine, heliotrope, everything that smells sweetly and not heavily--unlike Bob's well meaning but annihilating double stocks. "I hope you are in less pain now" (the usual formula, that comes as regularly and frequently as the doxology in church). "Oh yes! thanks; I'm very well" (yawning and looking woefully bored.) "What lovely flowers!" "St. John sent them to you" (rather shortly). "Mr. Gerard?" (with animation, the bored look vanishing.) "How very kind of him!" "He always is so good-natured," answers Constance, with a cold generality. "It is so particularly kind of him, when he has such an overpowering aversion for strangers," continues Essie, with a malicious twinkle in her eyes. Constance sweeps to the window, slightly discomfited. "He told me to ask you whether you would like him to come and carry you downstairs for an hour or two?" she says, in a somewhat constrained voice; "but I daresay you would rather be left in peace up here; and I should think that the quieter you kept your foot the better for it." "On the contrary, I should like it of all things," cries Essie, with perverse alacrity. "In your cheerful company downstairs, I shall be more likely to forget my sufferings, such as they are, than all by my dull self up here; to tell the truth, I was meditating asking your maid to come and talk to me about haberdashery." Outside Miss Craven's door St. John pauses, as one that is devout hesitates on the threshold of a sanctuary. Chintz curtains rose-lined, white-dressed toilet-table, simple valueless ornaments lying about, two little slippers, that look as if they had been just kicked off--his eye takes in all the details. He feels like Faust in Marguerite's chamber. And Marguerite herself, lying careless, restful on her couch, her two arms flung lazily upwards and backwards, to make a resting-place for her head; the smooth elbows and shoulders gleaming warm, cream-white, through the colder blue-white of her dress; and the up-looking face, childish in its roundness, and blooming down--but oh! most womanish--in the shafts of quick fire that greet him from the laughing, sleepy eyes. Where did she learn that art of shooting? From the pigs and cabbages at Glan-yr-Afon? From old Mrs. Brandon? From Miss Bessie? From--"Stop the Leak?" Deponent sayeth not whence. "_How_ good of you!" she says, with emphasis, stretching out her hand to him, as he stands beside her sofa, looking rather fagged with his day's work. "I had just been calculating how many hours there would be before I could have a decent pretext for going to bed; one gets so tired of oneself." "Not so tired as one does of one's family," answers St. John, rather ruefully. "I have no family," she rejoins, simply.