It was a small glass phial, and labeled “Poison.”  She smelt the stopper, and then handed it to Sheila, telling her to do the same.

“Why did your maid do your hair in such a way?” she asked suddenly.

“I haven’t got a maid,” said Sheila, “and I always do my hair so.”

“Don’t be offended.  I like it.  But you must not make a fool of yourself.  Your hair is too much that of a country beauty going to a ball.  Paterson will show you how to do your hair.”

“Oh, I say, aunt,” cried Lavender with a fine show of carelessness, “you mustn’t go and spoil her hair.  I think it is very pretty as it is, and that woman of yours would simply go and make a mop of it.  You’d think the girls now-a-days dressed their hair by shoving their head into a furze bush and giving it a couple of turns.”

She paid no heed to him, but turned to Sheila and said, “You are an only child?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave your father?”

The question was rather a cruel one, and it stung Sheila into answering bravely, “Because my husband wished me.”

“Oh.  You think your husband is to be the first law of your life?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Even when he is only silly Frank Lavender?”

Sheila rose.  There was a quivering of her lips, but no weakness in the proud, indignant look of her eyes:  “What you may say of me, that I do not care.  But I will not remain to hear my husband insulted.”

“Sheila,” said Lavender, vexed and anxious, and yet pleased at the same time by the courage of the girl—­“Sheila, it is only a joke.  You must not mind:  it is only a bit of fun.”

“I do not understand such jests,” she said calmly.

“Sit down, like a good girl,” said the old lady with an air of absolute indifference.  “I did not mean to offend you.  Sit down and be quiet.  You will destroy your nervous system if you give way to such impulses.  I think you are healthy.  I like the look of you, but you will never reach a good age, as I hope to do, except by moderating your passions.  That is well:  now take the ammonia again, and give it to me.  You don’t wish to die young, I suppose?”

“I am not afraid of dying,” said Sheila.

“Ring the bell, Frank.”

He did so, and a tall, spare, grave-faced woman appeared.

“Paterson, you must put luncheon on to two-ten.  I ordered it at one-fifty, did I not?”

“Yes, m’m.”

“See that it is served at two-ten, and take this young lady and get her hair properly done.  You understand?  My nephew and I will wait luncheon for her.”

“Yes, m’m.”