But if Barbara’s absence disturbed her, she was goaded almost beyond endurance by the persistence of Lord Beachcombe, who followed her like a shadow, ignoring alike her snubs and the gibes of those who fancied themselves on the trail of a renovated infatuation. In self-defense she kept Sir Geoffrey in close attendance, reckless of significant glances from curious eyes that were swift to mark his air of triumphant proprietorship, until at last, worn out with disappointment and fatigue, she begged him to call her chair, as she was dying to go home and get to bed. "And do, I implore you, leave me to go away alone, Sir Geoffrey," she entreated, in most pathetic tones. "I am too weary to entertain any one; you must see for yourself that I am almost too tired to speak." It was impossible to contradict her, for her pale face and clouded eyes betrayed intense nervous strain. Sir Geoffrey contented himself with obtaining permission to inquire after her health at an early hour next day, and repaired to his club, where he speedily found distraction at the card-table. But Prue, tired as she was, had no intention of going home without one more attempt to see Barbara, to whose mansion in Park Lane she was forthwith conveyed. Her friend was at home and the servants, aware of the intimate relations between the two ladies, did not hesitate to admit Prue, and inform her that supper was then being served in the Painted Room, a charming apartment, where Barbara was in the habit of holding high revelry with her closest intimates, and giving gay supper-parties at which gambling for high stakes, charades imitated from the entertainments of the French court, and similar amusements kept gossip on the _qui vive_. There was no gathering of wits and beauties to-night, however. The room (which took its name from the mythological paintings with which the ceiling and walls were decorated) was brightly lighted, but unoccupied, and in the small conservatory opening out of it, at a little table set for two among the banks of blossoming plants and cages of bright-hued birds, sat Barbara coquetting with Robin Freemantle—highwayman and outlaw!—who was in the very act of raising her hand to his lips when the door opened to admit Prue. "My dearest Prue—here you are at last—I had almost given up expecting you!" cried Barbara, greeting her with effusion. "Did you really expect me?" asked Prue, with irrepressible irony. "Meeting you nowhere, I feared you might be indisposed, but I am vastly relieved to find that you reached home without mishap." "Nothing could be more triumphantly successful than our escape," cried Barbara, gaily ignoring Prue’s loftiness; "and as you see, I am taking excellent care of my captive." "Dearest Barbara, I know well what an incomparable hostess you are," she replied dryly, "and now that I have seen for myself that you are safe, and not too greatly incommoded by your exploit, I will take my leave, as I am positively sinking with fatigue."