For five days the Marchesa gave no sign, no clue to her feelings which the anxious watchers could detect. She did indeed suffer Colonel Wenman to depart all forlorn, most unsuccessful and uncomforted--save by the company of his brother-in-arms, Captain Irons; and he was not cheerful either, having failed notably in certain designs on Miss Dufaure which he had been pursuing, but whereunto more pressing matters have not allowed of attention being given. But Lord Lynborough she never mentioned--not to Miss Gilletson, nor even to Norah. She seemed to have regained her tranquillity; her wrath at least was over; she was very friendly to all the ladies; she was markedly cordial to Roger Wilbraham on his visits. But she asked him nothing of Lord Lynborough--and, if she ever looked from the window towards Scarsmoor Castle, none--not even her observant maid--saw her do it. Yet Cupid was in the Grange--and very busy. There were signs, not to be misunderstood, that Violet had not for handsome Stillford the scorn she had bestowed on unfortunate Irons; and Roger, humbly and distantly worshipping the Marchesa, deeming her far as a queen beyond his reach, rested his eyes and solaced his spirit with the less awe-inspiring charms, the more accessible comradeship, of Norah Mountliffey. Norah, as her custom was, flirted hard, yet in her delicate fashion. Though she had not begun to ask herself about the end yet, she was well amused, and by no means insensible to Roger’s attractions. Only she was preoccupied with Helena--and Lord Lynborough. Till that riddle was solved, she could not turn seriously to her own affairs. On the night of the twenty-second she walked with the Marchesa in the gardens of the Grange after dinner. Helena was very silent; yet to Norah the silence did not seem empty. Over against them, on its high hill, stood Scarsmoor Castle. Roger had dined with them, but had now gone back. Suddenly--and boldly--Norah spoke. “Do you see those three lighted windows on the ground floor at the left end of the house? That’s his library, Helena. He sits there in the evening. Oh, I do wonder what he’s been doing all this week!” “What does it matter?” asked the Marchesa coldly. “What will he propose, do you think?” “Mr Stillford thinks he may offer to pay me some small rent--more or less nominal--for a perpetual right--and that, if he does, I’d better accept.” “That’ll be rather a dull ending to it all.” “Mr Stillford thinks it would be a favourable one for me.” “I don’t believe he means to pay you money. It’ll be something”--she paused a moment--“something prettier than that.” “What has prettiness to do with it, you child? With a right of way?” “Prettiness has to do with you, though, Helena. You don’t suppose he thinks only of that wretched path?” The flush came on the Marchesa’s cheek. “He can hardly be said to have seen me,” she protested. “Then look your best when he does--for I’m sure he’s dreamt of you.” “Why do you say that?”