They waited for her to speak.

She hesitated, coloured, betrayed confusion; her senses telling her of a catastrophe, her conscience accusing her as the origin of it.

’Did Dr. Shrapnel, to your belief, intentionally hurt your feelings or your dignity?’ said Beauchamp, and made the answer easier: 

‘Not intentionally, surely:  not . . .  I certainly do not accuse him.’

’Can you tell me you feel that he wounded you in the smallest degree?  And if so, how?  I ask you this, because he is anxious, if he lives, to apologize to you for any offence that he may have been guilty of:  he was ignorant of it.  I have his word for that, and his commands to me to bear it to you.  I may tell you I have never known him injure the most feeble thing—­anything alive, or wish to.’

Beauchamp’s voice choked.  Rosamund saw tears leap out of the stern face of her dearest now in wrath with her.

‘Is he ill?’ she faltered.

‘He is.  You own to a strong dislike of him, do you not?’

‘But not to desire any harm to him.’

‘Not a whipping,’ Mr. Culbrett murmured.

Everard Romfrey overheard it.

He had allowed Mrs. Culling to be sent for, that she might with a bare affirmative silence Nevil, when his conduct was becoming intolerable before the guests of the house.

‘That will do, ma’am,’ he dismissed her.

Beauchamp would not let her depart.

’I must have your distinct reply, and in Mr. Romfrey’s presence:—­say, that if you accused him you were mistaken, or that they were mistaken who supposed you had accused him.  I must have the answer before you go.’

‘Sir, will you learn manners!’ Mr. Romfrey said to him, with a rattle of the throat.

Beauchamp turned his face from-her.

Colonel Halkett offered her his arm to lead her away.

‘What is it?  Oh, what is it?’ she whispered, scarcely able to walk, but declining the colonel’s arm.

‘You ought not to have been dragged out here,’ said he.  ’Any one might have known there would be no convincing of Captain Beauchamp.  That old rascal in Bevisham has been having a beating; that’s all.  And a very beautiful day it is!—­a little too hot, though.  Before we leave, you must give me a lesson or two in gardening.’

‘Dr. Shrapnel—­Mr. Romfrey!’ said Rosamund half audibly under the oppression of the more she saw than what she said.

The colonel talked of her renown in landscape-gardening.  He added casually:  ‘They met the other day.’

‘By accident?’

’By chance, I suppose.  Shrapnel defends one of your Steynham poaching vermin.’

‘Mr. Romfrey struck him?—­for that?  Oh, never!’ Rosamund exclaimed.

‘I suppose he had a long account to settle.’

She fetched her breath painfully.  ‘I shall never be forgiven.’

‘And I say that a gentleman has no business with idols,’ the colonel fumed as he spoke.  ’Those letters of Shrapnel to Nevil Beauchamp are a scandal on the name of Englishman.’