Sir Simon was, if possible, in brighter spirits than ever; like Job’s friends, he was “full of discourse,” so that there was nothing to do but listen and laugh as the current rippled on. He had a deal to tell about his rambles in the Pyrenees, and a whole budget of adventures to retail, and anecdotes about odd people he had come across in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Nothing checked the pleasant flow until M. de la Bourbonais had the unlucky inspiration to inquire for Lady Rebecca’s health; whereupon the baronet raised his right hand and let it fall again with an emphatic gesture, shook his head, and compressed his lips in ominous silence. Raymond, who held the key of the pantomime, gathered therefrom that Lady Rebecca had for the six-and-thirtieth time rallied from the jaws of death, and plunged her long-suffering heir once more into dejection and disappointment. He knew what was in store for his private ear, and heaved a sigh. “But the present hour shall be a respite,” Sir Simon seemed to say; and he quitted the subject abruptly, and proceeded to catechise Franceline on her behavior since his departure. He was surprised and annoyed to find that she had been to no parties; that nothing more exciting than that short visit to Rydal had come of his deep-laid scheme with the dowager; and that there had been no rivalry of gallant suitors attacking the citadel of The Lilies. He had been rather nervous before meeting her; for, though it had been made quite clear to him by Raymond’s letters that _he_ had received no crushing blow of any description, Sir Simon had a lurking fear that recent events might have left a deeper shadow on his daughter’s existence than he was conscious of. Her aspect, however, set him at ease on this score. He could hardly have lighted on a more favorable moment for the confirmation of his sanguine hopes regarding Franceline’s heart-wholeness. True, she had been crying, only half an hour ago, bitter, burning tears enough; but her face retained no trace of them, and it still held the glow of inward triumph that Father Henwick’s last words had called up into her eyes, and her cheeks had got a faint color from the rapid walking. Sir Simon breathed freely as he took note of these outward signs; he could indulge in a little chaffing without remorse or _arrière-pensée_. He wanted to know, merely as a matter of curiosity, how many hearts she had broken in his absence--how many unfortunates had been mortally struck as they passed within reach of her arrows on the wayside. Franceline protested that she carried no quiver, and had not inflicted a scratch on any one. Humph! Sir Simon invited her to convey that answer to the marines. “And how about Ponsonby Anwyll? Has he been here lately?” “No; he called twice, but papa and I were out.” “Poor devil! so much the better for him! But he won’t have the sense to keep out of harm’s way; he’ll be at it again before long.”