Watching her opportunity when Chesterton's back was receding down the room towards the outstretched arm at the end, for she didn't mind what Wemyss said quite so acutely if Chesterton wasn't looking, she said with as natural a voice as she could manage, 'I'm very glad you've come, you know. I'm sure Lucy has been missing you very much.' 'Lucy can speak for herself,' he said. Then Miss Entwhistle concluded that conversation with Everard was too difficult. Let it flag. She couldn't, whatever he might feel able to do, say anything that wasn't polite in the presence of Chesterton. She doubted whether, even if Chesterton were not there, she would be able to; and yet continued politeness appeared in the face of his answers impossible. She had best be silent, she decided; though to withdraw into silence was of itself a humiliating defeat. When she was little Miss Entwhistle used to be rude. Between the ages of five and ten she frequently made faces at people. But not since then. Ten was the latest. After that good manners descended upon her, and had enveloped her ever since. Nor had any occasion arisen later in her life in which she had even been tempted to slough them. Urbane herself, she dwelt among urbanities; kindly, she everywhere met kindliness. But she did feel now that it might, if only she could so far forget herself, afford her solace were she able to say, straight at him, 'Wemyss.' Just that word. No more. For some reason she was dying to call him Wemyss without any Mr. She was sure that if she might only say that one word, straight at him, she would feel better; as much relieved as she did when she was little and made faces. Dreadful; dreadful. She cast down her eyes, overwhelmed by the nature of her thoughts, and said No thank you to the pudding. 'It is clear,' thought Wemyss, observing her silence and her refusal to eat, 'where Lucy gets her sulking from.' No more words were spoken till, dinner being over, he gave the order for coffee in the library. 'I'll go and say good-night to Lucy,' said Miss Entwhistle as they got up. 'You'll be so good as to do nothing of the sort,' said Wemyss. 'I--beg your pardon?' inquired Miss Entwhistle, not quite sure she could have heard right. At this point they were both just in front of Vera's portrait on their way to the door, and she was looking at each of them, impartially strangling her smile. 'I wish to speak to you in the library,' said Wemyss. 'But suppose I don't wish to be spoken to in the library?' leapt to the tip of Miss Entwhistle's tongue. There, however, was Chesterton,--checking, calming. So she said, instead, 'Do.' XXXI She hadn't been into the library yet. She knew the dining-room, the hall, the staircase, Lucy's bedroom, the spare-room, the antlers, and the gong; but she didn't know the library. She had hoped to go away without knowing it. However, she was not to be permitted to.