“He says,” she hesitated for a moment, “he says, he has heard a great deal of our--chrysanthemums.” “Twenty miles’ drive to look at half a dozen pots of chrysanthemums! _Bah!_” and Colonel Fenchurch sprang to his feet, snatched up his cap, and went out of the room. CHAPTER VI For one whole week the post-bag carried to Mrs. Fen a sharp disappointment, instead of an expected letter. In the course of certain promenades and _tête-à-têtes_ at Bonham Court, Blagdon had accepted the lady’s warm invitation to come and see them, and promised to fix his own day; indeed the last words he uttered, as he pressed her hand in a significant farewell, were: “_I will write._” This encouraging pledge had maintained certain buoyant hopes, but now these hopes began to sink, and fears to rise. By most exasperating ill-luck, Mrs. Fenchurch was engaged to attend a function in London--the wedding of a niece, who was making a marriage that reflected credit on the whole connection. She had forwarded a handsome gift (one of her bargains), and angled for an invitation to spend a week with a relative in Portland Place, in order, she declared, “to help dearest sister Cecilia and see the whole ‘thing through.’” Carefully matured plans, laid weeks ahead, were on this occasion too previous; but how was the unhappy woman to know that by her absence from home at the critical moment, she was risking the prospects of an alliance that would throw Cecilia’s paltry triumph into the cold, cold shade. The baffled chaperon looked worn and worried; her condition communicated itself to others. She complained of neuralgia--Mrs. Fenchurch’s neuralgia was an ailment to be feared--these were uncomfortable days for her household: everything seemed to go wrong: servants, dogs, appointments, and clocks. But in her aunt’s anxieties respecting Hugo Blagdon, Miss Glyn had no share; indeed, she scarcely cast a thought to that important personage. On the other hand, it must be frankly admitted that her mind was too frequently occupied by Lancelot Lumley.