"No, but she was," insisted Betty, "mother said so too, and she had a blue silk parasol, and she was just sweet. Lord St. Leath was in the carriage with them." "Poor Johnny!" said Jane. "He always has to do just what that horrible old mother of his tells him." Joan had listened to this little dialogue with what bravery she could. Doom then had been pronounced? Sentence had fallen? Miss Daubeney had arrived. She could hear the old Countess' voice again. "Claire Daubeney- Monteagle's daughter--such, a nice girl--Johnny's friend-----" Johnny's friend! Of course she was. Nothing could show to Joan more clearly the difference between Joan's world and the St. Leath world than the arrival of this lovely stranger. Although Mme. Sarah Grand and others were at this very moment forcing that strange figure, the New Woman, upon a reluctant world, Joan belonged most distinctly to the earlier generation. She trembled at the thought of any publicity, of any thrusting herself forward, of any, even momentary, rebellion against her position. Of course Johnny belonged to this beautiful creature; she had always known, in her heart, that her dream was an impossible one. Nevertheless the room, the sunlight, the white dresses, the long shining table, the coloured silks and ribbons, swam in confusion around her. She was suddenly miserable. Her hands shook and her upper lip trembled. She had a strange illogical desire to go out and find Miss Daubeney and snatch her blue parasol from her startled hands and stamp upon it. "Well," said Jane, "I don't envy any one who marries Johnny--to be shut up in that house with all those old women!" Betty shook her head very solemnly and tried to look older than her years. The afternoon was drawing on. Gladys came across and closed the windows. "I think that's about enough to-day," she said. "Now we'll have tea." Joan's great desire was to slip away and go home. She put her work on the table, fetched her coat from the other end of the room. Gladys stopped her. "Don't go, Joan. You must have tea." "I promised mother-----" she said. The door opened. She turned and found herself close to the Dean and Canon Ronder. The Dean came forward, nervously rubbing his hands together as was his custom. "Well, children," he said, blinking at them. Ronder stood, smiling, in the doorway. At the sight of him Joan was filled with hatred-- vehement, indignant hatred; she had never hated any one before, unless possibly it was Miss St. Clair, the French mistress. Now, from what source she did not know, fear and passion flowed into her. Nothing could have been more amiable and genial than the figure that he presented. As always, his clothes were beautifully neat and correct, his linen spotless white, his black boots gleaming. He beamed upon them all, and Joan felt, behind her, the response that the whole room made to him. They liked him; she knew it. He was becoming popular.