Next day she did not appear until luncheon-time.  But the guests at Beechleigh always rose when they pleased, and no one remarked her absence even, each pair busy with their own affairs.  Only Barbara crept up to her room to see how she was, and if she wanted anything.  Theodora wondered why her cousin should have been so changed from the afternoon of their arrival.  And Barbara longed to tell her.  She moved about, and looked out of the window, and admired Theodora’s beautiful hair spread over the pillows.  Then she said: 

“Oh, I wish you came here often and Mildred didn’t.  She is a brute, and she hates you for being so beautiful.  She made me keep away, you know.  Do you think me a mean coward?” Her poor, plain, timid face was pitiful as she looked at Theodora, and to her came the thought of what Barbara’s life was probably among them all, and she said, gently: 

“No, indeed, I don’t.  It was much better for you not to annoy her further; she might have been nastier to me than even she has been.  But why don’t you stand up for yourself generally?  After all, you are Uncle Patrick’s daughter, and she is only your mother’s niece.”

“They both love her far more than they do me,” said Barbara, with hanging head.

And then they talked of other things.  Barbara adored her home, but her family had no sentiment for it, she told Theodora; and Pat, she believed, would like to sell the whole thing and gamble away the money.

Just before luncheon-time, when Theodora was dressed and going down, Josiah came up again to see her.  He had fussed in once or twice before during the morning.  This time it was to tell her a special messenger had come from his agent in London to inform him his presence was absolutely necessary there the first thing on Tuesday morning.  Some turn of deep importance to his affairs had transpired during the holiday.  So he would go up by an early train.  He had settled it all with Sir Patrick, who, however, would not hear of Theodora’s leaving.

“The party does not break up until Wednesday or Thursday, and we cannot lose our greatest ornament,” he had said.

“I do not wish to stay alone,” Theodora pleaded.  “I will come with you, Josiah.”

But Josiah was quite cross with her.

“Nothing of the kind,” he said.  These people were her own relations, and if he could not leave her with them it was a strange thing!  He did not want her in London, and she could join him again at Claridge’s on Thursday.  It would give him time to run down to Bessington to see that all was ready for her reception.  He was so well now he looked forward to a summer of pleasure and peace.

“A second honeymoon, my love!” he chuckled, as he kissed her, and would hear no more.

And having planted this comforting thought for her consolation he had quitted the room.

Left alone Theodora sank down on the sofa.  Her trembling limbs refused to support her; she felt cold and sick and faint.