Geraldine bowed her head.  She was determined not to betray herself, and even felt some little curiosity, though how abundantly that faculty was to be gratified ere she left the room, she certainly had not foreseen.  One result was, it had an immediately bracing effect, for, with all her humility, Geraldine had the pride of self respect, and the confession completely disabused her of the idea that Harry had ever aspired to being suitor of hers.  It was a pang, no doubt.  Even his confidence might have a double meaning.  Had she any of the fury of a woman scorned, what an amount of mischief would be in her power.  But Harry’s instinct was right, and he never regretted his reliance on Geraldine’s honour and pride.

Dutton and his wife continued to meet daily in secret.  They had agreed to confess to Lord Bromley directly the visitors should have left, but I think were still young enough to enjoy the stratagems necessary for those stolen interviews.  How many narrow escapes they were to laugh at afterwards and, in society, when they appeared on such conventional terms as respectful youth and prudent governess, how many doubles entendres Harry hazarded, to see Bluebell struggling with alarmed risibility.

But the rash pair were outwitted at last, and run to earth by Kate in the moss arbour.  How much of their conversation had been overheard, or how long she had stood there before springing out, of course could be only conjecture.  A violent start had been irrepressible, and, as they both were speechless from the shock, Kate remained mistress of the situation, and evidently not disposed to be merciful.  A few sarcastic expressions to her cousin, some cutting remarks on Bluebell’s deceitful and designing conduct, and she was gone—­apparently for the purpose of exposing the intrigue she imagined herself to have discovered.  Dutton sprang after her, and Bluebell, in much vexation and alarm, returned to the house.

Not much breathing time was to be obtained in the nursery, whither she had hurried.  The door was half open, and, entering unperceived, she beheld a sight that gave her almost as genuine a start as Kate’s inopportune appearance.  Yet it was only Lord Bromley sitting by the table, looking pale and shaken, and gazing intently on—­could she believe her eyes?—­the miniature of Theodore Leigh.  The case was broken.  Bluebell had been gumming it, and had left it on the table to dry.  But why should he be studying it with such absorbing interest?

Lord Bromley raised his eyes, and fixed them sternly on the beautiful girl.  “Come here Theodora.”—­and she started.  “Whose portrait is this?”

“My father’s.”

“Exactly.  And, such being the case, your presence in this house requires some little explanation.”

Unable to see the connexion between the miniature and this attack; Bluebell remained silent and confounded; but, as he continued to gaze severely at her, she roused herself to reply.