Lady Isabel did not see that it could make any difference, or that it ought to.  She said so; and then leaned back in her chair and mused.

“What dress, my lady?”

“Joyce, what was that I heard you and Susan gossiping over at the door?” Lady Isabel suddenly asked.  “About Miss Hare giving me a bowl of poison.  Something in the dramatic line that would be.  You should tell Susan not to make her whispers so loud.”

“It was only a bit of nonsense, my lady.  These ignorant servants will talk; and every one at West Lynne knew Miss Barbara was in love with Mr. Carlyle.  But I don’t fancy she would have been the one to make him happy with all her love.”

A hot flush passed over the brow of Lady Isabel; a sensation very like jealousy flew to her heart.  No woman likes to hear of another’s being, or having been attached to her husband:  a doubt always arises whether the feeling may not have been reciprocated.

Lady Isabel descended.  She wore a costly black lace dress, its low body and sleeves trimmed with as costly white; and ornaments of jet.  She looked inexpressibly beautiful, and Barbara turned from her with a feeling of sinking jealousy, from her beauty, from her attire, even from the fine, soft handkerchief, which displayed the badge of her rank—­the coronet of an earl’s daughter.  Barbara looked well, too; she was in a light blue silk robe, and her pretty cheeks were damask with her mind’s excitement.  On her neck she wore the gold chain given her by Mr. Carlyle—­strange that she had not discarded that.

They stood together at the window, looking at Mr. Carlyle as he came up the avenue.  He saw them, and nodded.  Lady Isabel watched the damask cheeks turn to crimson at sight of him.

“How do you do, Barbara?” he cried, as he shook hands.  “Come to pay us a visit at last?  You have been rather tardy over it.  And how are you, my darling?” he whispered over his wife; but she missed his kiss of greeting.  Well, would she have had him give it her in public?  No; but she was in the mood to notice the omission.

Dinner over, Miss Carlyle beguiled Barbara out of doors.  Barbara would far rather have remained in his presence.  Of course they discussed Lady Isabel.

“How do you like her?” abruptly asked Barbara, alluding to Lady Isabel.

“Better than I thought I should,” acknowledged Miss Carlyle.  “I had expected airs and graces and pretence, and I must say she is free from them.  She seems quite wrapped up in Archibald and watches for his coming home like a cat watches for a mouse.  She is dull without him.”

Barbara compelled her manner to indifference.  “I suppose it is natural.”