Lord Carthew knew nothing of the doctor’s musings. One thought alone possessed him. To see Stella as soon as possible, to talk to her, to draw her out of her reserve and gradually get her to confide in him. As if divining his wishes, Dr. Graham suggested an adjournment to the drawing-room, and proposed to Lady Cranstoun, who was reclining on a sofa, a game of chess. The drawing-room was extremely large, and furnished in a chilly, old-fashioned style. The faded carpet belonged to the first years of Queen Victoria’s reign and was covered by day with a drugget, for Sir Philip Cranstoun was economical to stinginess in the appointment of his household. The walls were painted in white and gold, the furniture was of old-fashioned shape, covered by day with chintz, and resplendent at night in amber satin. A grand piano and a harp seemed lost in the distant and ill-lighted recesses of the room, which curtained four long windows opening on to a stone terrace at the back of the house. Near a tall standard lamp Lady Cranstoun’s sofa was standing, and close by, on a cushion on the hearthrug, her slender arms clasping her knees, and her eyes fixed on the fire, Stella Cranstoun was seated, with the head of a handsome collie dog resting on her knee. As the two gentlemen entered the room, she looked up quickly, but did not speak, and it was only after the doctor had suggested the game of chess that Miss Cranstoun inquired eagerly: “How is he now? Is he better?” Lord Carthew flushed guiltily. In his desire to see Stella again he had forgotten his friend completely. But the doctor’s conscience was not so sensitive, and he answered, in his blandest professional tones, that Lord Carthew had been given a sedative before dinner, and that it was not advisable to disturb him at present. “You haven’t been up then?” Stella murmured reproachfully to Claud, while Lady Cranstoun rang for the footman to remove her coffee-cup and to draw the chess-table up to her sofa. “No. The nurse said he must not excite himself by talking.” He felt it was rather a lame excuse, the more so as he felt her dark eyes fixed almost indignantly upon his face. “You see,” she said, lowering her gaze, and slightly blushing, “I feel that the accident was all my fault, and that is what makes me so anxious.” “I will go at once, and let you know how he is,” he returned, and left the room for that purpose after she had rewarded him with a smile of gratitude. Hilary was not asleep. He was tossing in bed, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Margaret, the nurse, was in the room, so he addressed his friend in an indignant torrent of broken French. “What possesses you to let the servants suppose you and I have changed places?” he burst out, angrily. “I simply won’t stand their ‘my lording’ me much longer. I didn’t come here to be made a fool of.”