She made her way to the carriage, flurried again by not knowing whether she was doing right or wrong.  Sir Nigel had given her no instructions and she had not yet learned that when he was in a certain humour there was equal fault in obeying or disobeying such orders as he gave.

The carriage from the Court—­not in the least a new or smart equipage—­was drawn up before the entrance of the station and Sir Nigel was in a rage because the vehicle brought for the luggage was too small to carry it all.

“Very sorry, Sir Nigel,” said the coachman, touching his hat two or three times in his agitation.  “Very sorry.  The omnibus was a little out of order—­the springs, Sir Nigel—­and I thought——­”

“You thought!” was the heated interruption.  “What right had you to think, damn it!  You are not paid to think, you are paid to do your work properly.  Here are a lot of damned boxes which ought to go with us and—­where’s your maid?” wheeling round upon his wife.

Rosalie turned towards the woman, who was approaching from the waiting room.

“Hannah,” she said timorously.

“Drop those confounded bundles,” ordered Sir Nigel, “and show James the boxes her ladyship is obliged to have this evening.  Be quick about it and don’t pick out half a dozen.  The cart can’t take them.”

Hannah looked frightened.  This sort of thing was new to her, too.  She shuffled her packages on to a seat and followed the footman to the luggage.  Sir Nigel continued rating the coachman.  Any form of violent self-assertion was welcome to him at any time, and when he was irritated he found it a distinct luxury to kick a dog or throw a boot at a cat.  The springs of the omnibus, he argued, had no right to be broken when it was known that he was coming home.  His anger was only added to by the coachman’s halting endeavours in his excuses to veil a fact he knew his master was aware of, that everything at Stornham was more or less out of order, and that dilapidations were the inevitable result of there being no money to pay for repairs.  The man leaned forward on his box and spoke at last in a low tone.

“The bus has been broken some time,” he said.  “It’s—­it’s an expensive job, Sir Nigel.  Her ladyship thought it better to——­” Sir Nigel turned white about the mouth.

“Hold your tongue,” he commanded, and the coachman got red in the face, saluted, biting his lips, and sat very stiff and upright on his box.

The station master edged away uneasily and tried to look as if he were not listening.  But Rosalie could see that he could not help hearing, nor could the country people who had been passengers by the train and who were collecting their belongings and getting into their traps.

Lady Anstruthers was ignored and remained standing while the scene went on.  She could not help recalling the manner in which she had been invariably received in New York on her return from any journey, how she was met by comfortable, merry people and taken care of at once.  This was so strange, it was so queer, so different.