Nita’s face flushed. Miss Shuttleworth continued to say disagreeable things, and Nita to grow more and more embarrassed, and the more disagreeable the one became, and the more confused the other, the more utterly calm and self-possessed remained Jerome Wellfield; nor did he allow a single sharp speech of Miss Shuttleworth’s to go unanswered, nor did he abstain from paying a single compliment to Nita, in consideration of the new and discordant element introduced. The whole affair, a mere joke at the commencement, had grown more serious; for Jerome’s manner, in proportion as he was goaded by Miss Shuttleworth’s shafts, grew more _empressé_ towards Nita, while she, confused with the danger they had passed through, intoxicated and bewildered by the look which occasionally met hers when she encountered Jerome’s eyes, anxious to conceal all her emotion from her aunt, scarcely knew where she was or what she was doing. Nothing suited her: at last she threw off a bonnet which the young woman had tried her on, and said hastily and decidedly that she would call again another day. She was tired, and could not decide upon anything then. ‘Not even with Mr. Wellfield’s help?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, blandly. ‘As if Mr. Wellfield cared anything about bonnets!’ said Nita, sharply. ‘Can’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’ ‘Nita!’ ejaculated Miss Shuttleworth, in a tone of the utmost pain and astonishment. But Nita was already on her way out of the shop. Jerome spoke to Miss Shuttleworth: ‘Miss Bolton is upset,’ he said. ‘We have had a serious accident, and only just escaped with our lives. She is unnerved.’ ‘I don’t understand it at all,’ said Aunt Margaret, all her pugnacity gone, and looking as she felt, perfectly bewildered. ‘I am sure Miss Bolton will explain later,’ he continued. Miss Shuttleworth looked at him, as if wondering who and what he was that he should thus take upon himself to make explanations; but with a stiff ‘Good-afternoon,’ she went out at the door, and he followed her. Nita saw her, and asked if she would not drive home with them. Miss Shuttleworth was on the point of refusing with decision and asperity, but something in her so-called ‘niece’s’ look caught her observant eye—a weariness, a whiteness, a languor. She said: ‘I don’t mind if I do. That’s to say, if you leave me in peace to the back seat, for I hate the front one unless I know the driver.’ ‘Sit where you like, aunt,’ was the reply, as Jerome came forward and offered his help.