Hescott lifts his eyes to meet those of Rylton.  For a moment the two men regard each other steadily, and in that moment know that each hates the other with an undying intensity.  Mrs. Bethune, who alone sees the working of the little tragedy, leans back in her chair, and lets her lids fall over her eyes.  So still she lies that one might think her sleeping, but she is only battling with a fierce joy that threatens every moment to break its bonds, and declare her secret to the world!

During all this, conversation has been going on.  Last night’s sayings and doings are on the tapis, and everyone is giving his and her experiences.  Just now the rather disreputable wife of a decidedly disreputable neighbour is lying on the social dissecting board.

“She gives herself away a good deal, I must say,” says Mrs. Chichester, who loves to hear her own voice, and who certainly cannot be called ungenerous on her own account.  “The way she dances!  And her frock!  Good heavens!”

“I hear she makes all her own clothes,” says Margaret, who perhaps hopes that this may be one small point in her favour.

Minnie Hescott makes a little moue.

“She may possibly make the things that cover her——­”

“That what?" questions Mr. Gower, resting innocent eyes on hers, but Miss Hescott very properly refuses to hear him.

“It must be a matter for regret to all well-minded people,” says Miss Gower, shaking her head until all her ringlets are set flying, “that when making that hideous dress, she did not add a yard or two, to——­” She pauses.

“The what?” asks Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward.

“The bodice!" replies Miss Gower severely.

“Oh, auntie!” says her nephew, falling back in his chair and covering his face with his hands.  “You shouldn’t!  You really shouldn’t!  It’s—­it’s not delicate!”

“What do you mean, Randal?” demands his aunt, with a snort that would have done credit to a war-horse.  “To whom are you addressing your remarks?  Are you calling me indelicate?”

“Oh no—­not for worlds!” says Mrs. Chichester, who is choking with laughter, and who only emerges from behind her fan to say this, and go back again.  “Who could?  But we feared—­we thought you were going to say her skirt."

“It is my opinion that you fear nothing,” says Miss Gower, with a withering glance at the fan.  “And let me tell you that there are other people,”—­with awful emphasis—­“besides Mrs. Tyneway who would do well to put a tucker round their——­”

“Ankles!” puts in Mrs. Chichester sweetly.

“No; their——­”

“What was her dress made of?” breaks in Margaret hurriedly, who is afraid of their going too far with the irascible old lady.

“Goodness knows!  She was all black and blue, at all events!”

“No!  You don’t say so?” exclaims Mr. Gower, with a tragic gesture.  “So her husband has been at it again!”