Ida looked at her in amazement, and Isabel laughed knowingly.

"Joseph goes to the theatre and plays billiards," she said, with

sisterly candour. "He works it very cleverly; he's artful, Joseph is,

and he takes father and mother in nicely; but sometimes I find a

theatre programme in his pocket, and marks of chalk on his coat. Oh, I

don't blame him! The life we lead in this house would make a cat sick.

It's like being on a tread-mill; nothing happens; it's just one dreary

round, with mother always whining and father always preaching. You

heard what he said to the servants to-night? I wonder they stand it. I

should go out of my mind myself if I didn't get a little amusement

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going up to the shops and sneaking into a _matinée_ on the sly. I'm

sure I don't know how you'll stand it, after the life you've led. What

do you use for your hair? It's so soft and silky. I wish I had black

hair like yours. Do you put anything on your hands? They're rather

brown; but that's because you've lived in the open air so much, I

suppose. I'll lend you some stuff I use, if you like."

Ida declined the brandy and the infallible preparation for whitening

the hands; and not at all discouraged, Isabel went on: "Were there any young men at Herondale? You didn't say anything about

them down-stairs, but I thought perhaps you would like to tell me when

we were alone. I suppose there was someone you were sorry to part

from?" she added, with an inviting smile.

Ida repressed a shudder and plied her brush vigorously, so that her

hair hid the scarlet which suffused her face.

"I knew so few of the people," she said. "As I told you down-stairs, my

father and I led the most secluded of lives, and saw scarcely anyone."

Isabel eyed Ida sharply and suspiciously.

"Oh, well, of course, if you don't like to tell me," she said, with a

little toss of her head; "but perhaps it's too soon; when we know each

other better you'll be more open. I'm sure I shall be glad of someone

to tell things to."

She sighed, and looked down with a sentimental air; but Ida did not

rise to the occasion; and with a sigh of disappointment, and a last

look round, so that nothing should escape her, Isabel took her

departure, and Ida was left in peace.

Tired as she was, it was some time before she could get to sleep. The

change in her life had come so suddenly that she felt confused and

bewildered. It had not needed Joseph Heron's mention of Sir Stephen

Orme's name to bring Stafford to her mind; for he was always present

there; and she lay, with wide-open eyes and aching heart, repeating to

herself the letter he had sent her, and wondering why he who, she had

thought, loved her so passionately, had left her. Compared with this

sorrow, and that of her father's death, the smaller miseries of her

present condition counted as naught.




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