It seemed as if she had known him half a lifetime now, from some strange affinity that made his presence, his voice, his face familiar. And yet one short week ago she had been ignorant of his very existence. Frank Amberley, whom she had seen almost daily for four years--the four years that had brought her from childhood to fairest maidenhood--was forgotten, save when actually present, and then regarded as belonging to the most formal rank of friends. She would never, unless under pressure of some most extraordinary difficulty, have thought of consulting him, or seeking his aid in any way whatever. Blanche Dormer drew out her tiny jeweled watch. “What will mama think, do, or say?” she exclaimed. “It will be enough to drive her crazy. Good heavens! my dearest Miss Turquand, they will imagine we have been capsized into the lake when they see the boat drifting about. When mama’s fright is over, I shall be in horrible disgrace. Such a thing never happened in all the nineteen years of my life. Lady Quaintree will be like a maniac. I shall never forgive myself.” Lois felt Miss Dormer was speaking the truth, and could not think of one solitary iota of consolation. They sat very silent, waiting for release from their exceedingly disagreeable and irksome situation. Blanche was partly right in her conjectures; but fortunately not so far as her fears pictured. The two ladies, absorbed in their ancient memories, were so occupied that they did not observe the coming storm till the first violent roll of thunder, or rather the advanced flash of blue, forked lightning, made one jump from her seat with a scream, and caused the other to drop her dainty Sèvres cup with a crash on the white bearskin at her feet. They knew that the girls had gone for a walk in the grounds; but hoped they had taken warning and returned. Lady Quaintree had rung with a jerk for her maid, Justine, to demand if the young ladies had come in. Justine said she thought they had, and went off to ascertain. But, unhappily, she had loitered, under pretense of being frightened by the thunder and lightning, in company with a tall footman, who professed to be very much in love with her. Partly by his persuasion to linger, partly from her own inclination to indulge in a stolen flirtation, she stayed until minutes stole into an hour, and she had completely forgotten her errand. Finding she did not return, Lady Quaintree took it for granted the young ladies had come in, but perhaps with drenched garments, and that Justine was staying to help them in changing their attire.