In a rare mood of recklessness she seated herself at the white and silver bureau and drew out a sheet of paper. But ere her hand could trace any of her confused thoughts the sound of the opening door alarmed her. In the doorway stood the Countess Peggy, surveying her with sharp green eyes under the shade of her feathered hat. “Weel,” she said with her usual self-possession, “I will have been saying for some time now that I would come and see ye, and to-day I came. But your servant will not be knowing where ye are, and so they put me in a vast room ower dark, and I grew weary of waiting, so started to find ye.” Lady Dalrymple could do nothing but look at her in a dazed manner and falter something below her breath. The Countess crossed over to her, looking vivid, brilliant and splendid in the pale room; the winter air had touched her cheeks with an apple-blossom red; her lithe figure carried regally her green velvet gown and her trailing furs. She sank onto the little settee and looked across at the white silent woman at the bureau. “Why, ye are ill!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no!” said Lady Dalrymple faintly. “You must, madam, excuse me—you startled me.” But the sharp eyes of the Countess Peggy were not to be deceived. “What has happened?” she demanded. Lady Dalrymple writhed under this intrusion. She fixed her eyes on the blank sheet of paper as if to encourage herself in an ebbing resolution. “Madam—I assure you,” she began. Lady Breadalbane rose and came up behind her. “Ulrica Dalrymple, ye no’ tell the truth when ye say ye ar’na’ ill—” The other rose desperately. “It is naught,” she said, and drew her fichu closer round her shoulders. “I—I—” “I will be calling your woman or Sir John.” “Oh, no,” was the vehement answer, “I beseech you, madam, that you will not.” So wild and white she looked, so desperately she trembled and clasped her shaking hands on her bosom, that the other woman stood arrested, staring at her. The Countess shared the common knowledge of Sir John’s domestic affairs, and as she looked at his wife her thoughts leaped to a swift conclusion. “Ulrica—has he been laying hands on ye?” she asked. “Sir John, I mean.” “No, no,” answered Lady Dalrymple desperately. “My God, no, how dare you ask me?” Lady Breadalbane looked at her unmoved. “Finish your letter,” she said calmly. “I would no’ be disturbing ye.” But the anger of Sir John’s wife had flamed up only to die out and leave the ashes of utter misery behind. “I will not write it,” she replied. “God forgive that I ever thought I would.” She sank down on the other end of the settee, too overwrought to conceal her distress, and Lady Breadalbane’s clear eyes measured her curiously. There was a silence of seconds, then the Countess spoke. “Ye are very unhappy, Ulrica Dalrymple—ye seem to have made a fine confusion of your life—and I would tell ye that ye will no’ be bettering it by puling and whimpering.” Lady Dalrymple turned wild eyes to her.