Gertrude, coming back from the refreshment-room a minute later, found Phyllis standing by herself, in an angle formed by one of the screens, pale to the lips, with brilliant, meaningless eyes. "We are going home," said Gertrude, walking up to her. "Oh, very well," she answered, rousing herself; "the sooner the better. I am not well." She put her hand to her side. "I had that pain again that I used to have." Lord Watergate, who stood a little apart, watching her, came forward and gave her his arm, and they all three went from the room. In the cab Phyllis recovered something of her wonted vivacity. "Isn't it a nuisance," she said, "Mr. Darrell is going away for a long time, and doesn't know when he will be able to finish my portrait." Gertrude started. "Well, I suppose you always knew that he was an erratic person." "You speak as if you were pleased, Gerty. I am very disappointed." "Put not your trust in princes, Phyllis, nor in fashionable artists, who are rather more important than princes, in these days," answered Gertrude, secretly hoping that their relations with Darrell would never be renewed. "He has tired of his whim," she thought, indignant, yet relieved. Mrs. Maryon opened the door to them herself. Phyllis shuddered as they went upstairs. "That bird of ill-omen!" she cried, beneath her breath. "Poor Mrs. Maryon. How can you be so silly?" said Gertrude, who herself had noted the long and earnest glance which the woman had cast on her sister. In the sitting-room they found Lucy sewing peacefully by the lamplight. "You hardly went to bed at all last night; you shouldn't be sitting up," said Gertrude, throwing off her cloak; while Phyllis carefully detached the knot of tuberose from her bodice, as she delivered herself for the second time of her grievance. Afterwards, going up to the mantelpiece, she placed the flowers in a slender Venetian vase, its crystal flecked with flakes of gold, which Darrell had given her; took the vase in her hand, and swept upstairs without a word. "I do not know what to think about Phyllis," said Gertrude. "You are afraid that she is too much interested in Mr. Darrell?" "Yes." "She does not care two straws for him," said Lucy, with the conviction of one who knows; "her vanity is hurt, but I am not sure that that will be bad for her." "He is the sort of person to attract----" began Gertrude; but Lucy struck in-- "Why, Gerty, what are you thinking of? he must be forty at least; and Phyllis is a child." Something in her tones recalled to Gertrude that clarion-blast of triumph, in the wonderful lyric-- "Oh, my love, my love is young!" "At any rate," she said, as they prepared to retire, "I am thankful that the sittings are at an end. Phyllis was getting her head turned. She is looking shockingly unwell, moreover, and I shall persuade her to accept the Devonshires' invitation for next month." [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XVI. A WEDDING.