Polly departed, leaving her mistress cosy in bed and strangely reluctant to rise and part company with her waking thoughts.

Yes; Dorothea had danced twice again with M. Raoul since her discovery of his boldness.  He had seen her draw the orange curtain over his offence, had sought her again and apologised for, it.  He had done it (he had pleaded) on a sudden impulse—­to be a reminder of one kind glance which had brightened his exile.  ’No one but she was in the least likely to recognise the trinket; in any case he would paint it out at the first opportunity.  And Dorothea had forgiven him.  She herself had a great capacity for gratitude, and understood the feeling far too thoroughly to believe for an instant that M. Raoul could be mightily grateful for anything she had said or done.  No; whatever the feeling which impels a young gentleman to secrete some little private reminder of its object, it is not gratitude; and Dorothea rejoiced inwardly that it was not.  But what then was it?  Some attraction of sympathy, no doubt.  To find herself attractive in any way was a new experience and delightful.  She had forgiven him on the spot.  And afterwards they had danced twice together, and he had praised her dancing.  Also, he had said something about a pretty foot—­but Frenchmen must always be complimenting.

A noise in the street interrupted her thoughts, and reminded her that she must not be dawdling longer in bed.  She shut her teeth, made a leap for it, and, running to the window, peered over the blind.  Some score of the prisoners in a gang were clearing the pavement with shovels and brushes, laughing and chattering all the while, and breaking off to pelt each other with snowballs.  She had discussed these poor fellows with M. Raoul last night.  Could she not in some way add to their comfort, or their pleasure?  He had dwelt most upon their mental weariness, especially on Sundays.  Of material discomfort they never complained, but they dreaded Sundays worse than they dreaded cold weather.  Any small distraction now—.

The train of her recollections came to a sudden halt, before a tall cheval-glass standing at an obtuse angle to the fireplace and on the edge of its broad hearthrug.  She had been moving aimlessly from the window to the wardrobe in which Polly had folded and laid away her last night’s finery, and from the wardrobe back to a long sofa at the bed’s foot.  And now she found herself standing before the glass and holding her nightgown high enough to display a foot and ankle on which she had slipped an ash-coloured stocking and shoe.  A tide of red flooded her neck and face.

* * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Morrish had laid the meal in the ground-floor room, once a library, but now used as a bank-parlour—­yet still preserving the d ignified aspect of a private room:  for banking (as the Westcote clients were reminded by several sporting prints and a bust of the Medicean Venus) was in those days of scarce money a branch of philanthropy rather than of trade.  The good caretaker was in tears over the breakfast.  “And I’m sure, Miss, I don’t know what’s to be done unless you can eat bacon.”