When at last she fell asleep, long after midnight, her thoughts were strange, exciting, almost happy; and when next morning the entrance of Simonetta roused her to consciousness, it was with something like hopefulness and anticipation that she turned her eyes to the open window, through which the clear country sunlight was breaking between the gay chintz curtains. With a quick, eager wakefulness she sat up in bed and pushed back her loosened hair. A feeling, long forgotten, was stirring in her heart--the vague, delicious hope of future things that had been wont to thrill her long ago, when she rode her father's horses along the strand at Orristown in the untarnished dawn of an Irish day. During the process of dressing, this sense of anticipation grew; and with it came a spontaneous wish for action. She became imbued with the same desire for light and air and freedom that had possessed her on the day in Florence when she had gazed out upon the distant hills from the window of the villa. Something of her eager energy was shining in her eyes, as she descended the stairs and entered the sunny morning-room, where breakfast was always served when the party at Tufnell was small. Lady Diana and her husband were already in the room, glancing through their morning letters, the former wearing a plain linen dress, the latter an old shooting suit that had seen much service. At the moment that she opened the door, Lady Diana was reading aloud from the letter in her hand, while George Tuffnell was laughing with enormous amusement. They made a very homely, pleasant picture of contented, successful married life. Seeing their guest, they both came forward cordially, and George Tuffnell smiled warm-heartedly as he took her hand. "Well, Mrs. Milbanke, and what is Tuffnell like in daylight? Isn't it worth a hundred Londons? Haven't you got an appetite for breakfast?" Lady Diana laughed, as she led Clodagh to the table. "George is a horrible egoist," she said cheerfully. "He thinks the only things in the world worthy of consideration are Tuffnell--and the Tuffnells." Clodagh smiled as she took her seat. "He is very much justified," she said softly. Then she glanced round the table. "But where's Lady Frances?" Her hostess smiled. "Breakfasting in bed. I knocked at her door at seven to ask whether she would care for a canter before breakfast, or whether she would like to walk over to the home farm with George, but she literally drove me away. She's out of sorts to-day. Poor Frances!" "Oh, I am sorry!" Clodagh looked distressed. "Just to-day, when everybody's coming!" George Tuffnell turned to her with his habitual bluff kindliness. "Don't trouble, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "She'll be all right by the afternoon. It's the mornings that Society plays the deuce with. Look at Di! Look what a country life has done for her!" Clodagh looked almost shyly at her hostess's straight shoulders and healthy, happy face.