Ten minutes later, she made her way down the Broad Walk to the Gate, turning a foolish unintelligent stare on the porter who opened it for her as he had done for Rivers ten minutes before--she felt a wild desire to ask him how her lover had looked as he passed through. Still in a merciful dream she mounted the steps of the dog-cart that was waiting in the road for her, and was whirled away in the direction of Barnard Castle. She was wrong in her supposition--Rivers had not left the Park, but had turned down a little side path to the right. He stayed in the Park till he heard the sound of the wheels of the dog-cart going past the high boundary wall. Then he walked with his quick elastic step to the gate, and back to the “Heather Bell.” “I wonder if I shall ever paint another decent picture?” was the purely technical remark that he made to himself. He was very pale, and he lifted his hat off, once or twice, and breathed deeply as the cold morning air met his forehead. “A lady to see you, Mr. Rivers,” said Jane Anne to him, as he crossed the porch. “Where?” “She asked to be shown into your sitting-room, Sir,” answered Jane Anne, with great suavity of manner. “You should not have done that!” the painter said wearily, and passed in. The first thing that caught his eyes on entering the little parlour that he had shared with Mrs. Elles was her tear-stained handkerchief lying like a white blot on the black horsehair sofa, and her long tan-coloured gloves spread at length upon the table. If he had thought about it, he would have recollected that the gloves had not lain there when he left the room, or at any rate, were not in the same position. In the very middle of the room stood a tall commanding presence, the “Bombazine Mother”--as Mrs. Elles had insisted on calling her--the lady he had seen talking to Jane Anne in the garden last night! One bony hand was firmly planted on the table in the neighbourhood of the gloves, the other flourished a letter in an aggressively judicial manner. The artist bowed, and waited for her to speak. “I daresay you know my name, Sir!” she said. “I have not the pleasure,” he answered, curtly. Her voice had a most painful effect on him. “Poynder--Mrs. George Poynder--I am the aunt--by marriage--of the lady who has been living with you here for one calendar month! Don’t attempt to deny it, man---- ” She spoke so preposterously fast that he had no opportunity of doing so. Pointing to Jane Anne, who had slunk into the room during her speech, she continued: “This young lady will bear out what I have said, and the good people of the inn. There are plenty of Phœbe’s things about; for instance, that object on the sofa--you will hardly say it is yours, I presume? I saw besides, with my own eyes last night, an unparallelled scene of---- ” Here the painter interrupted her by almost roaring out: “Please to leave the room, Jane Anne!” The girl, cowed, crept out. The painter continued: