“P.S.—­It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to visit you, but my duty recalls me to my regiment in Paris.”

A faint sigh escaped Chris, the first breath she had drawn for many seconds.  She stood by her dressing-table in the full glare of the electric light, dressed in white, her wonderful hair shining like burnished copper.  She was to give her first dinner-party that night.  It was not to be a very large affair, yet it was something of an ordeal in her estimation.  She would probably have faced it more easily away from Aunt Philippa’s critical eyes.  But this was a condition not obtainable.  Aunt Philippa had decided to remain some little time longer at Kellerton Old Park in consequence of an engagement having fallen through, a state of affairs that Noel regarded with a disgust too forcible to be expressed in words, and which had driven Max away within three days of his arrival.

Upon Chris had devolved the main burden of her aunt’s society, and a heavy burden she had begun to find it.  Aunt Philippa had apparently determined to spend her time in transforming her young niece into a practical housewife—­a gigantic task which she tackled with praiseworthy zeal.  She had already instituted several reforms in the household, and her thrifty mind contemplated several more.  Chris’s attitude, which had at first been one of indifference, had gradually developed into one of passive resistance.  She was, as a matter of fact, too preoccupied just then to turn her attention to active opposition; but she did not pretend to enjoy the tutelage thus ruthlessly pressed upon her.  She had been compelled to relinquish her readings with Bertrand, of whom she now saw very little; for, though rigidly courteous at all times, he consistently avoided Aunt Philippa whenever possible.  She on her part treated him with disdainful sufferance, much as she had treated Cinders in the old days.  She resented his presence, but endured it perforce.

Under these circumstances it was not surprising that there should occur moments of occasional friction between her niece and herself, especially since, under the most favourable conditions, they had never yet managed to discover a single point in common.

This constant jarring in the background of the ceaseless anxiety that consumed her night and day had worn Chris’s nerves to a very thin edge, and now that relief had come at last in the form of the letter she held in her hand she was almost too spent to feel it.  The tension had endured for so long that it seemed impossible that it could have relaxed all in a moment.  She had received a roll of banknotes from her brother two days before, but that had in a fashion but added to her fever of unrest.  Now that she knew them to be safe in the pocket of the blackguard for whom they were intended, now surely was the time for peace to return.

But had it?  Standing there, still reading and re-reading those gibing words, she asked herself dully if ever peace could return to her—­the thoughtless, happy peace of her childhood that she had valued so lightly—­the careless security of a mind at rest.  Had it gone from her for ever?  Was that also buried among the rocks at Valpre?  She wondered—­she wondered!