Cyril passed a sleepless night and the next morning found him still undecided as to what course to pursue. It was, therefore, a pale face and a preoccupied mien that he presented to the inspection of the county, which had assembled in force to attend his cousin's funeral. Never in the memory of man had such an exciting event taken place and the great hall in which the catafalque had been erected was thronged with men of all ages and conditions. In the state drawing-room Cyril stood and received the condolences and faced the curiosity of the county magnates. The ordeal was almost over, when the door was again thrown open and the butler announced, "Lady Upton." Leaning heavily on a gold-headed cane Lady Upton advanced majestically into the room. A sudden hush succeeded her entrance; every eye was riveted upon her. She seemed, however, superbly indifferent to the curiosity she aroused, and one felt, somehow, that she was not only indifferent but contemptuous. She was a tall woman, taller, although she stooped a little, than most of the men present. Notwithstanding her great age, she gave the impression of extraordinary vigour. Her face was long and narrow, with a stern, hawk-like nose, a straight, uncompromising mouth, and a protruding chin. Her scanty, white hair was drawn tightly back from her high forehead; a deep furrow separated her bushy, grey eyebrows and gave an added fierceness to her small, steel-coloured eyes. An antiquated bonnet perched perilously on the back of her head; her dress was quite obviously shabby; and yet no one could for a moment have mistaken her for anything but a truly great lady. Disregarding Cyril's outstretched hand, she deliberately raised her lorgnette and looked at him for a moment in silence. "Well! You are a Crichton at any rate," she said at last. Having given vent to this ambiguous remark, she waved her glasses, as if to sweep away the rest of the company, and continued: "I wish to speak to you alone." Her voice was deep and harsh and she made no effort to lower it. "So this was Anita Wilmersley's grandmother. What an old tartar!" thought Cyril. "It is almost time for the funeral to start," he said aloud and he tried to convey by his manner that he, at any rate, had no intention of allowing her to ride rough-shod over him. "I know," she snapped, "so hurry, please. These gentlemen will excuse us." "Certainly." "Of course." "We will wait in the hall." Cyril heard them murmur and, such was the force of the old lady's personality, that youths and grey beards jostled each other in their anxiety to get out of the room as quickly as possible. "Get me a chair," commanded Lady Upton. "No, not that one. I want to sit down, not lie down." With her stick she indicated a high, straight-backed chair, which had been relegated to a corner. Having seated herself, she took a pair of spectacles out of her reticule and proceeded to wipe them in a most leisurely manner. Cyril fidgeted impatiently.