against the ball. Inside, nothing but a woman forcing back the bitter
tears of sorrow and shame--and a man who was tired of her.

She roused herself. She was her mother's daughter; and she had a
spark of her mother's spirit. Her life depended on the issue of that
interview. It was useless--without father or brother to take her
part--to lose the last chance of appealing to him. She dashed away
the tears--time enough to cry, is time easily found in a woman's
existence--she dashed away the tears, and spoke to him again, more
gently than she had spoken yet.

"You have been three weeks, Geoffrey, at your brother Julius's place,
not ten miles from here; and you have never once ridden over to see me.
You would not have come to-day, if I had not written to you to insist on
it. Is that the treatment I have deserved?"

She paused. There was no answer.

"Do you hear me?" she asked, advancing and speaking in louder tones.

He was still silent. It was not in human endurance to bear his contempt.
The warning of a coming outbreak began to show itself in her face. He
met it, beforehand, with an impenetrable front. Feeling nervous about
the interview, while he was waiting in the rose-garden--now that he
stood committed to it, he was in full possession of himself. He
was composed enough to remember that he had not put his pipe in its
case--composed enough to set that little matter right before other
matters went any farther. He took the case out of one pocket, and the
pipe out of another.