"Look here, Aunt Rosamond; it’s really only for a little while; you’ll have to show, you know, but they can’t stay. Their blessed motor broke down, or something, and they ought to have been here hours ago. Now they can only stop for a cup of tea, if they are to get back to-night. You must just pull yourself together for half an hour—just half an hour, Aunt Rosamond! Leave me to manage. All you’ve got to do is to smile a bit, and let Runkle do the talking. They want us all to go to Melbury Towers to-morrow, Major Bethune and everybody. That’s what they’ve come over for." Lady Gerardine put the girl from her roughly. "I’m not going there," she said. "Of course not," said wise Baby, soothing. "But we must put him off somehow. To-morrow you can be ill or something. Do, Aunt Rosamond, darling, be sensible. Don’t make things harder. For Heaven’s sake don’t let us have a row—that would be worse than anything! I know you’re not well enough to stand poor old Runkle just now; it’s your dear nerves. But just for half an hour—for the sake of being free of him. Oh, Aunt, you used to be so patient! Come, they’ll be in upon us in one minute. Luckily they’ve all been busy over that machine, pulling its inside to pieces. Come to your room, now, and have your tea and tidy a bit. And I’ll keep them at bay, till you are ready." She half dragged, half led Lady Gerardine to the warm shelter of her own room. She stood over her till the prescribed tea had been taken; then, hearing the Old Ancient House echo to the footsteps of its unexpected visitors, she announced her intention of running to look after them. "I’ve told Runkle already that you’ve a beastly headache," she cried, with her cheerful mendacity. "I won’t let him up here, never fear; but I’ll come and fetch you down, when I’ve started them on Mary’s scones. If you just do your hair a bit—Lord, there goes six o’clock, they can’t stay long, that’s one blessing!" Left to herself, with the stimulating comfort of the tea doing its work upon her weary frame, Lady Gerardine viewed her position with some return to calmness. This odious burden that she had laid upon herself, she must lift it awhile once more; and it should be for the last time. She who for years had played the hypocrite placidly would play it now again though the tempest raged within her. For the future she must have time. Before she could act, she must think. For this present sordid moment—the child was right—there must be no scandal; above all not here, in this sacred house of his, where even she, unworthy, had recognised the presence of the dead. She sat down before the mirror and shook her long hair loose. The sound of voices, of laughter, rose confusedly from the drawing-room below. She set her teeth as the well-known note of Sir Arthur’s insistent bass distinguished itself from the others. How had she endured it for five years?