"Yes, Ma's right, my girl; Ma's always right," adds Mr. Grebby, with an admiring glance at his wife. There are more tears before the final parting, when Eleanor watches them drive away with her husband, who has promised to escort them to town, and put them safely in a cab. "Mind you see they go comfortably to Cousin Harriet's," she says before he leaves. "No wandering about seeking omnibuses, carrying bags, and leading Rover." They wave farewell. Giddy sees them from her window driving down the terrace. "My words have carried good weight," she thinks. "Eleanor has shunted those objectionable bumpkins after all." When they were gone Eleanor puts on her hat and cloak, and sallies forth in the chill wintry air. She enters the telegraph office, and addresses a form to Carol Quinton: "Don't go to G.'s party this afternoon. Come to Lyndhurst instead.--E." Then she walks back up the hill, a strange thrill of exhilaration rushing over her. "Good-looking men at her parties," she says to herself. "Carol has promised to come early, has he? We shall see." * * * * * The house seems dull and depressing without the old people or Rover. Philip is sure to stay late in the City, having spent most of the morning at home, and since she has no engagement. Thus Eleanor eases her conscience and waits expectantly for Carol. Her drawing-room with its bright log fire looks cosy in the extreme as Mr. Quinton enters it that afternoon. Eleanor is curled up on the sofa, a little bundle of sad silk drapery. Her eyes are wistful, her tea-gown is black. The dim light reveals not the slight _soupcon_ of powder paling her features. She barely rises to greet him, only moving to a sitting posture, her feet still tucked under her, holding out a trembling hand. As the door closes he grasps the pink fingers and presses them to his lips. "Don't," a reproachful glance from under her long fringed lashes, "that is not kind." "But they are such tempting fingers," he whispers apologetically. "Come, draw up that chair and sit beside me like a doctor, only I want you to heal my sorrows. I have got such a horrid wound _here_," pressing her heart. "But first of all, was I wrong to telegraph? Are you angry, Mr. Quinton?" "It was delightful of you," he murmurs, looking down on her with all his eyes. "Dear Mrs. Roche, I thank you from my soul. Only let me be your confidant--your friend!" "Have you been to Giddy's?" she asks eagerly. "No, what do you take me for? Was I not commanded to come here instead?" "Giddy is no longer my friend; she has treated me abominably--snubbed and insulted me in my own house, simply because I wanted to bring my parents to her stupid party. They are the dearest old people from the country, not gifted with her false Society airs. I was only a farmer's daughter, you know. She taunted me with meeting you at her house and being ashamed of my parents. Bah! it sickens me."