"Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can't! He was a Pilgrim Father in the _Mayflower_, and he fell on his knees and thanked God as soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But he couldn't hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth." Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman. "The carriage is waiting, Miss." "Thanks,--all right. Good-night Mr Tempest,--you'd better send word to Sibyl you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home all the evening." I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little sorry for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive 'crush' of the successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true girl,--vulgar and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her better qualities of character and sentiment,--and it was this very sincerity which, being quite unconventional and not at all _la mode_, was misunderstood, and would always be misunderstood by the higher and therefore more hypocritically polished circles of English society. I returned to the drawing-room slowly and meditatively, telling one of the servants on my way to ask Lady Sibyl if she could see me for a few moments. I was not kept waiting long; I had only paced the room twice up and down when she entered, looking so strangely wild and beautiful that I could scarcely forbear uttering an exclamation of wonder. She wore white as was always her custom in the evenings,--her hair was less elaborately dressed than usual, and clustered over her brow in loose wavy masses,--her face was exceedingly pale, and her eyes appeared larger and darker by comparison--her smile was vague and fleeting like that of a sleep-walker. She gave me her hand; it was dry and burning. "My father is out--" she began. "I know. But I came to see _you_. May I stay a little?" She murmured assent, and sinking listlessly into a chair, began to play with some roses in a vase on the table beside her. "You look tired Lady Sibyl,"--I said gently--"Are you not well?" "I am quite well--" she answered--"But you are right in saying I am tired. I am dreadfully tired!" "You have been doing too much perhaps?--your attendance on your mother tries you----" She laughed bitterly. "Attendance on my mother!--pray do not credit me with so much devotion. I never attend on my mother. I cannot do it; I am too much of a coward. Her face terrifies me; and whenever I do venture to go near her, she tries to speak, with such dreadful, such ghastly efforts, as make her more hideous to look at than anyone can imagine. I should die of fright if I saw her often. As it is, when I do see her I can scarcely stand--and twice I have fainted with the horror of it. To think of it!--that that living corpse with the fearful fixed eyes and distorted mouth should actually be _my mother_!" She shuddered violently, and her very lips paled as she spoke. I was seriously concerned, and told her so.