In the afternoon Adelaide and I went in the carriage to make calls upon those we did not expect to see in the evening.  She wrote P.P.C. on my cards and laughed at the idea of paying farewell visits to strangers.  The last one was made to Mrs. Hepburn.  A soft melancholy crept over me when I entered the room where I had met Desmond last.  We should probably not see each other alone again.  Mrs. Somers’s policy to that effect would be a success, for I should make no opposition to it.  Not a word of my feelings could I speak to Mrs. Hepburn—­Adelaide was there—­provided I had the impulse; and Mrs. Hepburn would be the last to forgive me should I make the conventional mistake of a scene or an aside.  This old lady had taught me something.  I went to the window, curious to know whether any nerve of association would vibrate again.  Nothing stirred me; the machinery which had agitated and controlled me was effete.

Mrs. Hepburn said, as we were taking leave: 

“If you come to Belem next year, and I am above the sod, I invite you to pass a month with me.  But let it be in the summer.  I ride then, and should like you for a companion.”

She might have seen irresolution in me, for she added quickly, “You need not promise—­let time decide,” and shook my hands kindly.

“Hep, is smitten with you, in her selfish way,” Adelaide remarked, as we rode from the door.  She ordered the coachman to drive home by the “Leslie House,” which she wanted me to see.  A great aunt had lived and died there, leaving the house—­one of the oldest in Belem—­to her brother Ned.

“Who is he like?”

“Desmond; but worse.  There’s only a year’s difference in their ages.  They were educated together, kept in the nursery till they were great boys and tyrants, and then sent abroad.  They were in Amiens three years.”

“There are Desmond and Ben; they are walking in the street we are passing.”

She looked out.

“They are quarreling, I dare say.  Ben is a prig, and preaches to Des.”

While we were in the house, and Adelaide talked with the old servant of her aunt, my thoughts were occupied with Desmond.  What had they quarreled on?  Desmond was pale, and laughed; but Ben was red, and looked angry.

“Why do you look at me so fixedly?” Adelaide asked, when we were in the carriage again.

It was on my tongue to say, “Because I am beset.”  I did not, however; instead I asked her if she never noticed what a rigid look people wore in their best bonnets, and holding a card-case?  She said, “Yes,” and shook out her handkerchief, as if to correct her own rigidity.

After an early tea she compelled me to sing, and we delayed dressing till Mrs. Somers bloomed in, with purple satin and feather head-dress.

“Now we must go,” she said, “and get ready.”

“What shall you wear?” Mrs. Somers asked, advising a certain ugly, claret-colored silk.