A timely remembrance of Sydney recalled him to himself.  For her sake, he was bound to prevent Mrs. Presty’s contemplated interview with his wife on the next morning.

Descending the stairs, he met his brother in the corridor on the first floor.

“The very man I want to see,” Randal said.  “Tell me, Herbert, what is the matter with that curious old woman?”

“Do you mean Mrs. Presty?”

“Yes.  She has just been telling me that our friend Mrs. MacEdwin has taken a fancy to Miss Westerfield, and would be only too glad to deprive us of our pretty governess.”

“Did Mrs. Presty say that in Miss Westerfield’s presence?”

“No.  Soon after you and Catherine left the room, Miss Westerfield left it too.  I daresay I am wrong, for I haven’t had time to think of it; but Mrs. Presty’s manner suggested to me that she would be glad to see the poor girl sent out of the house.”

“I am going to speak to her, Randal, on that very subject.  Is she still in the drawing-room?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything more to you?”

“I didn’t give her the chance; I don’t like Mrs. Presty.  You look worn and worried, Herbert.  Is there anything wrong?”

“If there is, my dear fellow, you will hear of it tomorrow.”

So they parted.

Comfortably established in the drawing-room, Mrs. Presty had just opened her favorite newspaper.  Her only companion was Linley’s black poodle, resting at her feet.  On the opening of the door, the dog rose—­advanced to caress his master—­and looked up in Linley’s face.  If Mrs. Presty’s attention had happened to be turned that way, she might have seen, in the faithful creature’s sudden and silent retreat, a warning of her son-in-law’s humor at that moment.  But she was, or assumed to be, interested in her reading; and she deliberately overlooked Linley’s appearance.  After waiting a little to attract her attention, he quietly took the newspaper out of her hand.

“What does this mean?” Mrs. Presty asked.

“It means, ma’am, that I have something to say to you.”

“Apparently, something that can’t be said with common civility?  Be as rude as you please; I am well used to it.”

Linley wisely took no notice of this.

“Since you have lived at Mount Morven,” he proceeded, “I think you have found me, on the whole, an easy man to get on with.  At the same time, when I do make up my mind to be master in my own house, I am master.”

Mrs. Presty crossed her hands placidly on her lap, and asked:  “Master of what?”

“Master of your suspicions of Miss Westerfield.  You are free, of course, to think of her and of me as you please.  What I forbid is the expression of your thoughts—­either by way of hints to my brother, or officious communications with my wife.  Don’t suppose that I am afraid of the truth.  Mrs. Linley shall know more than you think for, and shall know it to-morrow; not from you, but from me.”