Her work, she replied, was not particularly interesting, rather drudging and casual. Family misfortune had obliged her to provide for herself; she had not been brought up to any profession, but to leisure and comparative affluence. She had tried companioning and secretarial work, even a little hack literary work. She had no decided talent for anything. Her parents were early lost; she had been partly brought up by an aunt--"What! another aunt?" Ermengarde murmured to herself--whose affairs had become entangled and her means diminished, especially during late years. "So I have to work," the woman of mystery said, with a sigh that implied intense weariness and disgust at the necessity, "to take at least one burden from my poor aunt's shoulders." "Far too thin," Ermengarde thought, and hazarded the observation that the woman of mystery must be greatly enjoying her present holiday; to which she replied that she certainly was, her expenses being supplied by her employer, to whom her sojourn in those regions was in some vague way useful. "You are possibly collecting information on his behalf?" "In a way--yes," she admitted, with a faint blush. "A detective way? Shadowing? Family mysteries?" "One can't always explain--in detail----" "Especially in work of such a delicate nature." The sphinx mask had suddenly fallen back on the woman of mystery's features, and she had audibly remembered a letter to take down for the post. Having done this, she returned only just in time to dress for dinner and bring the menu for the invalid to select from. "And I'll see that you have what you choose," she promised. "Louise will bring it up. Ah! she has brought your flowers already," with a quick change of expression. "Yes--with the hot water," Ermengarde faltered, changing colour quickly. "She always puts flowers on my table for dinner." "Would she put them on mine, I wonder?" "Miss Somers, what can it matter? Why in the word shouldn't the stupid boy give me flowers if he likes? Besides, I only found it out yesterday." "I was sure you didn't know. Miss Boundrish only discovered it quite recently. She is of an inquiring disposition. And what she knows, or thinks she knows, is not long ignored by her world." "She may know anything and everything she likes about me," Ermengarde flashed out furiously; "how many hairpins I use a day, whether I curl with Hinde's or with tongs, and where I get my gowns--and who pays for them and how much!" How dared this young woman hint to her of prudence and propriety? After dinner Agatha came up again, put on fresh logs, and sat meekly by the hearth. She described the desolation Mrs. Allonby's absence had created at _table d'hôte_, as well as Miss Boundrish's Christian desire to visit and console her in her affliction. "Of course she has a headache," the fair Dorris had shouted across the table, "and no wonder after yesterday."