The housekeeper left the room and Claudia fell into thought. Two important facts she had gained by descending from her dignity to gossip with an upper servant, namely: That La Faustina was really the widow of Kenneth Dugald, and that the Earl of Hurstmonceux was well pleased with his son's marriage to herself, and would therefore be likely to be her partisan in any trouble she might have on account of Mrs. Dugald. She resolved, therefore, to be very wary in her conduct until the arrival of her father, and then to request an introduction to the earl's family. Bitterly galling as it would be to her pride, she even determined to meet Mrs. Dugald in the drawing room and at the table without demur; since she could treat her as the widow of the Honorable Kenneth Dugald without openly compromising her own dignity. Finally she concluded to meet Lord Vincent's treacherous courtesy with assumed civility. On the third day Lady Vincent felt well enough to join the viscount and Mrs. Dugald at breakfast. Pursuant to her resolution she received their congratulations with smiles, and answered their inquiries as to her health with thanks. It was a foggy, misty, drizzly day the precursor of a long spell of dark and gloomy weather, that Claudia at length grew to fear would never come to an end. During this time the monotony of Claudia's life at the castle was really dreadful. And this was something like it: She would wake about seven o'clock, but knowing that it was hours too early to rise in that house, she would lie and think until she was ready to go mad. At nine o'clock she would ring for her maid, Sally, and spend an hour in dawdling over her toilet. At ten she would go down to breakfast--a miserable, uncomfortable meal of hollow civility or sullen silence. After breakfast she would go into the library and hunt among the old, musty, worm-eaten books for something readable, but without success. Then, ready to kill herself from weariness of life, she would wrap up in cloak and hood and climb the turret stairs and go out upon the ramparts of the castle and walk up and down with the drizzling mist above and around her and the thundering sea beneath her--up and down--hour after hour--up and down--lashing herself into such excitement that she would be tempted to throw herself from the battlements, to be crushed to death by the rocks or swallowed up by the waves below. At length, as fearing to trust herself with this temptation, she would descend into the castle again, and go to her own rooms, and try to interest herself in a little needle-work, a little writing, a talk with Katie or with Mrs. Murdock. At last the creeping hours would bring luncheon, when the same inharmonious party would assemble around the same ungenial table, and eat and drink without enjoyment or gratitude.