That same evening, as Lennox was leaving the club, Mrs. Austen, rising from the dinner-table, preceded Margaret into the drawing-room and looked at the clock, a prostrate nymph, balancing a dial on the soles of her feet. At the figures on the dial, the nymph pointed a finger. From the clock Mrs. Austen turned and exclaimed at the windows which she had already examined. "The jardinieres have not yet been attended to! It is inconceivable!" Margaret, who had seated herself, said: "You might send for the manager." "He would only keep me waiting and then expect me to tell him what I wanted. He ought to know. Besides, I might have forgotten. It is very tiresome." Margaret stood up. "I will tell him." With a click, Mrs. Austen unfurled a fan and, with another click, refurled it. "No. I will see him myself. I am quite in the humour." Margaret looked after her mother, who was leaving the room. The sudden tempest in a flowerpot surprised her. But the outer door closed. Margaret reseated herself. Presently he would come and together they would make those plans that lovers make--and then unmake, unless, elsewhere, they have been made for them. Meanwhile she waited. The incident at the Sandringham, the sight of Cassy, her mother's facile insinuations, these things had distressed her, because, and only because, they had prevented her from enjoying the innocent pleasure of the innocent visit to the rooms of her betrothed, whom she loved with a love that was too pure and too profound, to harbour doubt and suspicion and that evil child of theirs which jealousy is. Her faith was perfect. That faith showed in her face and heightened her beauty with a candour that should have disarmed her mother, who, in the hall below, was, at that moment, instructing a man and not about flower-boxes either. "Mr. Lennox, you may know him, by sight I mean, will be coming here shortly. Please have him shown into that room there." Mrs. Austen passed on. The little room at which she had glanced that afternoon received her--a hospitality in which a mirror joined. The latter welcomed her with a glimpse of herself. It was like meeting an old friend. But no; a friend certainly, yet not an old one. Age had not touched this lady, not impudently at least, though where it may have had the impertinence to lay a finger, art had applied another, a moving finger that had written a parody of youth on her face which was then turning to some one behind her whom the mirror disclosed. In turning, she smiled. "It is so good of you, Mr. Lennox, to look in on me. The door-man told you about Margaret, did he not? No? How careless of him. The dear child has a headache and has gone to bed." "Has she?" said Lennox. He found but that. But at least he understood why Margaret had not come to his rooms. The headache had prevented her. "It is nothing." Mrs. Austen was telling him. "To-morrow she will be herself again. Nice weather we are having." "Very," Lennox answered.