She bowed again, and turning in the same queenly manner to an obsequious assistant who was waiting near at hand, told her to bring “some hats and bonnets, the prettiest you have,” to show Sir Barnaby. As the girl went swiftly away on her errand, the baronet, who saw that he was to be given no opportunities and that he must make them for himself, hastened to say, lowering his voice and gazing at the beautiful woman before him with what he considered a killing look:-- “I can’t tell you, Madame, how deeply grieved I was to be present the other day when that young fool Archdale made himself so objectionable----” Audrey cut him short. Raising her eyebrows haughtily, she asked:-- “Did Sir Harry make himself more objectionable than anybody else? I was not aware of it, I assure you.” Sir Barnaby was taken aback. He began to stammer and to twist the ends of his carefully dyed and waxed moustache. “Did he? Oh, well--er--I’m very glad if you--you didn’t think so. It seemed to me that he--he said things which I should have resented, which in fact I did resent, and which--which--In short, I was disgusted at the whole thing. Considering how charmingly we have all been entertained at your house, Madame Rocada----” “Oh, pray don’t call me that. It is not my name. My name is Angmering, Mrs. Angmering,” interrupted Audrey. “I am the wife of an unfortunate man who was wrongfully convicted of forgery, but whose people are already hard at work to get the conviction quashed.” Her boldness, her frankness, the simplicity with which she spoke, surprised Sir Barnaby and extorted his admiration, even while it made his position difficult. For he wanted to take up a stand as her champion and defender, and her independence and resentment of the situation into which she had been forced made him uncertain how to address her. “Indeed you have my best wishes that they may succeed,” said he. “A woman so young and beautiful needs a protector, and I shall rejoice to hear that your husband is at your side once more. In the meantime, should you ever need a friend, a disinterested friend, I hope you will remember that I am always at your service.” “Thank you,” said Audrey coolly, as she took from the hands of the attendant maiden a sweet thing in white felt and ostrich feathers, with engaging bunches of violets tucked in here and there about the brim: “Would this suit Lady Joyce, do you think?” “I--I--I’m afraid it’s a little--little young-looking,” murmured Sir Barnaby, by no means pleased to find himself thus ruthlessly recalled from chivalrous sentiment to matters of sordid business. And the “young ladies” around, who all knew that Lady Joyce, though her husband’s contemporary, had allowed herself to age at a faster rate than he, exchanged stealthy looks, and wondered at Madame’s want of tact.