‘I don’t know how to believe it!’ she said; ‘can you be here?’

‘We are curing my father.  Had you not heard of his illness?’

‘I hear nothing,’ said Clara, sadly, as she held out her hand to Lord Ormersfield, who had also come to meet her; and her uncle, who followed close behind, was full of cordial rejoicings on the encounter.

There was Jane Beckett also, whom Louis next intercepted on her way to the bedrooms, laden with bags, and smiling most joyously to see him.  ’To be sure, my young Lord!  And your papa here too, my Lord!  Well! who’ll be coming abroad next, I wonder?’

‘I wonder at nothing since I have met you here, Jane.’

’And I am right glad of it, my Lord.  You’ll cheer up poor Miss Clara a bit, I hope—­for—­Bless me! wont those Frenchmen never learn to carry that box right side up?’

And off rushed Jane to a never-ending war of many tongues in defence of Clara’s finery; while Louis, following into the sitting-room, found Mr. Dynevor inviting his father to the private dinner which he had ordered for greater dignity.

The proposal was accepted for the sake of spending the evening together, but little was thus gained; for, excepting for that one little scream, Louis would hardly have felt himself in the company of his Giraffe.  She had become a very fine-looking person, not quite handsome, but not many degrees from it, and set off by profuse hair, and every advantage of figure and dress; while her manner was self-possessed and formal, indifferent towards ordinary people, but warm and coaxing towards her uncle.  Blunt—­almost morose to others—­he was fondling and affectionate towards her; continually looking at the others as if to claim admiration of her, appealing to her every moment, and even when talking himself, his keen eye still seeming to watch every word or gesture.

The talk was all Switzerland and Italy—­routes and pictures, mountains and cathedrals—­all by rote, and with no spirit nor heart in the discussion—­not a single word coming near home, nothing to show that Dynevor Terrace had any existence.  Louis bade Clara good-night, mortified at the absence of all token of feeling for her brother, and more than half repenting his advice to remain with her uncle.  How could the warm-hearted girl have become this cold, haughty being, speaking by mechanism?  He scarcely felt inclined to see her again; but early the next morning, as he was at breakfast with his father, there was a knock at the door, and a voice said, ‘May I come in?’ and as Louis opened, there stood the true Clara, all blushes and abruptness.  ‘I beg your pardon if it is wrong,’ she said, ‘but I could not help it.  I must hear of him—­of James.’

Lord Ormersfield welcomed her in an almost fatherly manner, and made her sit down, telling her that she had come at a good moment, since Louis had just received a letter; but he feared that it was not a very good account of Isabel.