"Herr Becknet is coming in afterwards," old Lady Carloes said. "You'll like him, my dear. He plays the harp too wonderfully. I've asked a few friends to come in. Of course the drawing-room isn't very large, but I hope----" The room was swimming before Rachel. A stuffed bird in a glass case sailed across the table towards her and the fireplace tottered and staggered. She was just able to gasp: "Lady Carloes--please--it's this heat or something----" There were cries of agitation. The young man gave her his arm into the passage, she was surrounded by anxious servants; someone fanned her, she drank water and was conscious of Lady Carloes' blue satin and Uncle Richard's shirt-front. She knew now what she wanted; she pulled herself together and absolutely refused Uncle Richard's escort. "No, I shall be _quite_ all right--really. No, Uncle Richard, I won't hear of it. It was silly of me to come out really. I've been feeling this thundery weather all day. No, Lady Carloes, thank you, I'll just go straight back and go to bed. I won't hear of anyone coming with me, thanks. No, _really_ I _am_ so sorry, Lady Carloes. I shall be all right in the morning. Yes, if you'd call a cab, please. No, Uncle Richard, I'd rather not." She was better. She knew what she wanted. At last the cab was there, but it was not "York Terrace" that she had commanded, but "24 Saxton Square." It was Lizzie whom she needed. IV It was a long drive to Saxton Square. She was better now, but still strangely unwell, and to open both the windows was of no use: not a breath stirred, the trees, dark and sombre, were of iron, the lamps gave no radiance and the sky was black. She was terribly frightened, frightened because here in the dark of her carriage, thoughts of Breton attacked her as they had never done before. She hid her face in her burning hands; her body was shivering. Breton was before her as he had been in his room. She felt his hands about her, his breath on her cheek, his mouth was pressed against hers, her fingers knew again the stuff of his coat and the back of her hand had touched his neck.... And yet, it was at this moment, with those very memories crowding about her, that she knew definitely and with absolute assurance, that it was Roddy, and Roddy only in all the world, whom she now loved. Her passion for Breton had been a passion of rebellion, of discontent--a moment perhaps in her education that carried her from one stage to another. She loved Roddy. She could not trace the steps by which her love had grown, but affection had first been changed into something stronger on that day when he had been carried back into his house from whose gates he had passed, that morning, so strong and sure. Pity had been the beginning of it, admiration of his courage had continued it, this moment of this stormy night had struck it into flame-- And now, perhaps, in another day or so, she would learn that he had done with her for ever.