Aunt Adeline did not come down to breakfast, but Aunt Jane appeared, fresh and glowing, just in time for prayers, having been with Gillian and Harry to survey the scene of operations, and to judge of the day, which threatened showers, the grass being dank and sparkling with something more than September dews. ‘The tables must be in the coach-house,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘Happily, our equipages are not on a large scale, and we must not get the poor girls’ best things drenched.’ ‘No; and it is rather disheartening to have to address double ranks of umbrellas,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘Is the post come?’ ‘It is always infamously late here,’ said Harry. ‘We complained, as the appointed hour is eight, but we were told ‘all the other ladies were satisfied.’ I do believe they think no one not in business has a right to wish for letters before nine.’ ‘Here it comes, though,’ said Gillian; and in due time the locked letter-bag was delivered to Lady Merrifield, and Primrose waited eagerly to act as postman. It was not the day for the Indian mail, but Aunt Jane expected some last directions, and Lady Merrifield the final intelligence as to the numbers of each contingent of girls. Dolores was on the qui vive for a letter from Maude Sefton, and devoured her aunt and the bag with her eyes. She was quite sure that among the bundle of post-cards that were taken out there was a letter. Also she saw her aunt give a little start, and put it aside, and when she demanded. ‘Is there no letter for me?’ Lady Merrifield’s answer was,’ None, my dear, from Miss Sefton.’ Hot indignation glowed in Dolores’s cheeks and eyes, more especially as she perceived a look pass between the two aunts. She sat swelling while talk about the chances of rain was passing round her, the forecasts in the paper, the cats washing their faces, the swallows flying low, the upshot being that it might be fine, but that emergencies were to be prepared for. All the time that Lady Merrifield was giving orders to children and servants for the preparations, Dolores kept her station, and the instant there was a vacant moment, she said fiercely-- ‘Aunt Lilias, I know there is a letter for me. Let me have it.’ ‘Your father told me you might have letter from Miss Sefton, and there is none from her,’ said Lady Merrifield, with a somewhat perplexed air. ‘I may have letters from whom I choose.’ ‘My dear, that is not the custom in general with girls of your age, and I know your father would not wish it. Tell me, is there any one you have reason to expect to hear from?’ Dolores had an instinct that all the Mohuns were set against the person she was thinking of, but she had an answer ready, true, but which would serve her purpose.