“You silly creature!” said Doris, springing up.  “Look here—­I’ll lend you my spare blouse.  You can turn it in at the neck, and wear my white scarf.  You’ll be as smart as any of them!”

And half laughing, half compassionate, she pulled her blouse out of the box, adjusted the white scarf to it herself, and sent the bewildered Jane about her business, after having shown her first how to unpack her mistress’s modest belongings, and strictly charged her to return half an hour before dinner.  “Of course I shall dress myself,—­but you may as well have a lesson.”

The girl went, and Doris was left stormily wondering why she had been such a fool as to bring her.  Then her sense of humour conquered, and her brow cleared.  She went to the open window and stood looking over the park beyond.  Sunset lay broad and rich over the wide stretches of grass, and on the splendid oaks lifting their dazzling leaf to the purest of skies.  The roses in the garden sent up their scent, there was a plashing of water from an invisible fountain, and the deer beyond the fence wandered in and out of the broad bands of shadow drawn across the park.  Doris’s young feet fidgeted under her.  She longed to be out exploring the woods and the lake.  Why was she immured in this stupid room, to which Lady Dunstable had conducted her with a chill politeness which had said plainly enough “Here you are—­and here you stay!—­till dinner!”

“If I could only find a back-staircase,” she thought, “I would soon be enjoying myself!  Arthur, lucky wretch, said something about playing golf.  No!—­there he is!”

And sure enough, on the farthest edge of the lawn going towards the park, she saw two figures walking—­Lady Dunstable and Arthur!  “Deep in talk of course—­having the best of times—­while I am shut up here—­half-past six!—­on a glorious evening!” The reflection, however, was, on the whole, good-humoured.  She did not feel, as yet, either jealous or tragic.  Some day, she supposed, if it was to be her lot to visit country houses, she would get used to their ways.  For Arthur, of course, it was useful—­perhaps necessary—­to be put through his paces by a woman like Lady Dunstable.  “And he can hold his own.  But for me?  I contribute nothing.  I don’t belong to them—­they don’t want me—­and what use have I for them?”

Her meditations, however, were here interrupted by a knock.  On her saying “Come in”—­the door opened cautiously to admit the face of the substantial lady, Miss Field, to whom Doris had been introduced at the tea-table.

“Are you resting?” said Miss Field, “or only ’interned’?”

“Oh, please come in!” cried Doris.  “I never was less tired in my life.”

Miss Field entered, and took the armchair that Doris offered her, fronting the open window and the summer scene.  Her face would have suited the Muse of Mirth, if any Muse is ever forty years of age.  The small, up-turned nose and full red lips were always smiling; so were the eyes; and the fair skin and still golden hair, the plump figure and gay dress of flower-sprigged muslin, were all in keeping with the part.