’Victor conjured up a day when this darling Fredi, a child, stood before a famous picture in the Brera, at Milan; when he and her mother noticed the child’s very studious graveness; and they had talked of it; he remarking, that she disapproved of the Patriarch; and Nataly, that she was taken with Hagar’s face.

He seemed surprised at her not having heard from Dudley.

‘How is that?’ said he.

‘Most probably because he has not written, papa.’

He paused after the cool reply.  She had no mournful gaze at all; but in the depths of the clear eyes he knew so well, there was a coil of something animate, whatever it might be.  And twice she drew a heavy breath.

He mentioned it in London.  Nataly telegraphed at night for her girl to meet her next day at Dartrey’s hotel.

Their meeting was incomprehensibly joyless to the hearts of each, though it was desired, and had long been desired, and mother was mother, daughter daughter, without diminution of love between them.  They held hands, they kissed and clasped, they showered their tender phrases with full warm truth, and looked into eyes and surely saw one another.  But the heart of each was in a battle of its own, taking wounds or crying for supports.  Whether to speak to her girl at once, despite the now vehement contrary counsel of Victor, was Nataly’s deliberation, under the thought of the young creature’s perplexity in not seeing her at the house of the Duvidney ladies:  while Nesta conjured in a flash the past impressions of her mother’s shrinking distaste from any such hectic themes as this which burdened and absorbed her; and she was almost joining to it, through sympathy with any thought or feeling of one in whom she had such pride; she had the shudder of revulsion.  Further, Nataly put on, rather cravenly an air, of distress, or she half designingly permitted her trouble to be seen, by way of affecting her girl’s recollection when the confession was to come, that Nesta might then understand her to have been restrained from speaking, not evasive of her duty.  The look was interpreted by Nesta as belonging to the social annoyances dating, in her calendar, from Creckholt, apprehensively dreaded at Lakelands.  She hinted asking, and her mother nodded; not untruthfully; but she put on a briskness after the nod; and a doubt was driven into Nesta’s bosom.

Her dear Skepsey was coming down to her for a holiday, she was glad to hear.  Of Dudley, there was no word.  Nataly shunned his name, with a superstitious dread lest any mention of him should renew pretensions that she hoped, and now supposed, were quite withdrawn.  So she had told poor Mr. Barmby only yesterday, at his humble request to know.  He had seen Dudley on the pantiles, walking with a young lady, he said.  And ’he feared,’ he said; using, a pardonable commonplace of deceit.  Her compassion accounted for the ‘fear’ which was the wish, and caused her not to think it particularly strange, that he should imagine Dudley to have quitted the field.  Now that a disengaged Dartrey Fenellan was at hand, poor Mr. Barmby could have no chance.