Poor girl! she was easily discouraged, and felt no resentment; she did not even think it necessary to conjure up a rival to account for the discontinuation of his attentions, till a slight incident revealed one to her.  She was sitting alone in the morning-room, and, being somewhat of a china fancier, turned a cup on a bracket upside down, to examine the mark at the bottom.  In doing so, a bit of paper fluttered out, and as she picked it up, the words, “West Wood, four o’clock,” met her startled gaze.  She was convinced that the writing was Harry’s, but whom could the assignation be intended for?  Soon after Bluebell came into the room as it seemed to her with no very apparent purpose Lady Geraldine, not without design, seated herself at a small writing-table, with her back to the bracket, and almost immediately heard a slight clatter.  Miss Leigh had vanished, and so had the paper from the teacup.

“I wish I dare go to the West Wood,” thought Geraldine, for she was not all perfect, and the indignation in her heart inspired a deep desire to expose the underhand behaviour of the designing governess.  That evening Harry had been talking to her longer than usual.  Bluebell was singing at the piano, and finally began the Persian song of “The May Rose to the Nightingale.”  Geraldine listened, attracted by the sentiment.  One verse was unfortunately suggestive—­

  Moonlight, moonlight, think’st thou he’d leave me
    For one so pale—­for one so pale
  But moonlight, moonlight, if he deceive me,
    Tell not the tale—­tell not the tale

Then Geraldine’s pallid complexion was flushed with resentment, for she imagined the words levelled at herself.  Next day—­unable to resist again examining the cup—­she found another fold of paper, but this time in a female handwriting.  Harry, of course, would come for it and she determined to remain till he did so.  The room was then tolerably full.  Some time after Dutton dropped in with another man, and, all unconscious of surveillance, lingered till only he and Lady Geraldine remained in the room.

“Mr. Dutton,” she said, in her somewhat reedy voice, “I understand a little about china, but cannot make out the date of that little yellow cup, the mark at the bottom is so defaced.”

It was said meaningly, and Harry understood that he was discovered.  To throw himself upon her generosity seemed an obvious necessity.  With a conscious yet penetrating glance, closing the half open door, he exclaimed, impulsively, “Dear Lady Geraldine, may I tell you something about myself?”

Geraldine flushed hotly.  This was somewhat more than she had bargained for.  With the slightest soupcon of stateliness, dreading what was to follow, she managed to say, that “Whatever he liked to tell her should go no further.”

“It will all be known soon enough,” cried he.  “But I fancy Lady Geraldine, you have some suspicion I know I can trust you, and you have been always so kind and sympathetic to me, it is a much greater comfort telling you than Kate.”