She went away along the fell-side, her head drooping—­so tall and thin, in her plain dress of grey Carmelite and her mushroom hat trimmed with black.

Miss Anna looked after her.  She knew very little indeed, as yet, of what it was that had really brought the poor thing home.  Her own fault, no doubt.  Phoebe would have poured out her soul, without reserve, on that first night of her return to her old home.  But Miss Anna had entirely refused to allow it.  ‘No, no!’ she had said, even putting her hand on the wife’s trembling lips; ’you shan’t tell me.  Keep that for John—­it’s his right.  If you’ve got a confession—­it belongs to John!’

On the other hand, of the original crisis—­of the scene in Bernard Street, the spoilt picture, and the letters of Madame de Pastourelles—­Miss Anna had let Phoebe tell her what she pleased; and in truth—­although Phoebe seemed to be no longer of a similar opinion—­it appeared to the ex-schoolmistress that John had a good deal to explain—­John and the French lady.  If people are not married, and not relations, they have no reasonable call whatever to write each other long and interesting letters.  In spite of her education and her reading, Miss Anna’s standards in these respects were the small, Puritanical standards of the English country town.

The gate leading to the steep pitch of lane opened and shut.  Miss Anna rose hastily and looked out.

A lady in black entered the little garden, walked up to the door, and knocked timidly.  Was this the ‘messenger’?  Miss Anna hurried into the little hall.

‘Is Mrs. Fenwick in?’ asked a very musical voice.

‘Mrs. Fenwick is sitting a little way off on the fell,’ said Miss Anna, advancing.  ‘But I can call her directly.  What name, please?’

The lady took out her card.

‘It’s a French name,’ she said, with smiling apology, handing it to Miss Anna.

Miss Anna glanced at it, and then at the bearer.

‘Kindly step this way,’ she said, pointing to the parlour, and holding her grey-capped head rather impressively high.

Madame de Pastourelles obeyed her, murmuring that she had sent her carriage on to the Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, whence it would return for her in an hour.

Eugenie had made her first speech—­her first embarrassed explanation.  She and Miss Anna sat on either side of the parlour table, their eyes on each other.  Eugenie felt herself ill at ease under the critical gaze of this handsome, grey-haired woman, with her broad shoulders and her strong brows.  She had left London in hurry and agitation, and was, after all, but very slenderly informed as to the situation in Langdale.  Had she inadvertently said something to set this formidable-looking person against her and her mission?