Lydia began with the scene on Lucas Wharf, and little by little told the whole story up to the moment of their parting at Trieste. There were lapses and pauses in the story, which her aunt was never at a loss to fill aright. At the end she said, “If it were not for his promising to come here and see you, I should say Mr. Staniford had been flirting, and as it is he may not regard it as anything more than flirtation. Of course, there was his being jealous of Mr. Dunham and Mr. Hicks, as he certainly was; and his wanting to explain about that lady at Messina--yes, that looked peculiar; but he may not have meant anything by it. His parting so at Trieste with you, that might be either because he was embarrassed at its having got to be such a serious thing, or because he really felt badly. Lydia,” she asked at last, “what made _you_ think he cared for you?” “I don't know,” said the girl; her voice had sunk to a husky whisper. “I didn't believe it till he said he wanted me to be his--conscience, and tried to make me say he was good, and--” “That's a certain kind of man's way of flirting. It may mean nothing at all. I could tell in an instant, if I saw him.” “He said he would be here this afternoon,” murmured Lydia, tremulously. “This afternoon!” cried Mrs. Erwin. “I must get up!” At her toilette she had the exaltation and fury of a champion arming for battle. XXV. Mr. Erwin entered about the completion of her preparations, and without turning round from her glass she said, “I want you to think of the worst thing you can, Henshaw. I don't see how I'm ever to lift up my head again.” As if this word had reminded her of her head, she turned it from side to side, and got the effect in the glass, first of one ear-ring, and then of the other. Her husband patiently waited, and she now confronted him. “You may as well know first as last, Henshaw, and I want you to prepare yourself for it. Nothing can be done, and you will just have to live through it. Lydia--has come over--on that ship--alone,--with three young men,--and not the shadow--not the ghost--of another woman--on board!” Mrs. Erwin gesticulated with her hand-glass in delivering the words, in a manner at once intensely vivid and intensely solemn, yet somehow falling short of the due tragic effect. Her husband stood pulling his mustache straight down, while his wife turned again to the mirror, and put the final touches to her personal appearance with hands which she had the effect of having desperately washed of all responsibility. He stood so long in this meditative mood that she was obliged to be peremptory with his image in the glass. “Well?” she cried. “Why, my dear,” said Mr. Erwin, at last, “they were all Americans together, you know.” “And what difference does that make?” demanded Mrs. Erwin, whirling from his image to the man again.