With that she left the room. Nita was alone. Perhaps she rested; perhaps not. She threw off her hat, pushed her hair back from her aching temples, and buried her hot and throbbing brow in her hands. She felt no inclination to weep now: only a kind of feverish, breathless excitement, as the scene with the runaway horses again started vividly up before her mind’s eye, and she could think of nothing else; could only live over again what had seemed the long eternity of agony she had felt as they rushed down the hill, before Jerome had succeeded in turning the horses aside, and so saving them. It was a scene which she knew would be present with her for days, perhaps weeks. Added to that, the subtle inexplicable meaning in Wellfield’s eyes, in the tone of his voice, and in the touch of his hand; then the home-coming, and her aunt’s calm, monotonous, even-toned voice, as she repeated her warnings—warnings, the remembrance of which made the blood rush hotly to her face, then madly back to her heart, causing it to beat wildly, and leaving her pale and trembling. She felt absolutely ill. Should she send an excuse, and not go to the drawing-room again to-night? No; certainly not. She would not let anyone see how foolish she was. If she remained upstairs John would be uncomfortable, and would miss her; her father’s quiet evening with the savages would be spoiled; her aunt would wave her green and yellow cap-ribbons in triumph, convinced that her warnings had taken effect, and Wellfield would think her a poor creature, while she—would not see him, nor speak to him, nor touch his hand again till to-morrow morning. She started up, and began to make her toilette with unusual slowness and care, and with fingers which she could not compel not to tremble. Downstairs she found, as she had expected, John Leyburn, as well as Miss Margaret. They were all in the drawing-room, and supper was announced before she had answered her father’s inquiries or sat down. This gave her the opportunity of retaining his arm, and walking into the dining-room with him. The meal seemed a long one. Nita was thankful when it was over, and they went into the drawing-room again. Wellfield did not immediately come there. He said he was going for a stroll by the river, and he went out at the open hall-door into the garden. Mr. Bolton was not a demonstrative man: he went to his accustomed table with the reading-lamp, and took up his book. Miss Shuttleworth pulled out a stocking, took a chair (a straight-backed one, as might have been expected), and knitted, with a still rocky severity of countenance. John was arranging cushions on a couch near the window. ‘Come here,’ he said to Nita. ‘You are to lie down, and I will sit beside you.’ ‘I’m not tired,’ said Nita. ‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, smiling his good, pleasant smile. ‘Come here, or I put on my hat and go home this moment.’ ‘Home! This is as much your home as any other place,’ she said, complying with his behest.