Rosalie murmured a reply and tried to control herself by making another effort to swallow the lump in her throat.  But she could not swallow it.  She had been keeping a desperate hold on herself too long.  The bewildered misery of her awakening, the awkwardness of the public row at the station, the sulks which had filled the carriage to repletion through all the long drive, and finally the jangling bells which had so recalled that last joyous day at home—­at home—­had brought her to a point where this meeting between mother and son—­these two stony, unpleasant creatures exchanging a reluctant rub of uninviting cheeks—­as two savages might have rubbed noses—­proved the finishing impetus to hysteria.  They were so hideous, these two, and so ghastly comic and fantastic in their unresponsive glumness, that the poor girl lost all hold upon herself and broke into a trembling shriek of laughter.

“Oh!” she gasped in terror at what she felt to be her indecent madness.  “Oh! how—­how——­” And then seeing Nigel’s furious start, his mother’s glare and all the servants’ alarmed stare at her, she rushed staggering to the only creature she felt she knew—­her maid Hannah, clutched her and broke down into wild sobbing.

“Oh, take me away!” she cried.  “Oh, do!  Oh, do!  Oh, Hannah!  Oh, mother—­mother!”

“Take your mistress to her room,” commanded Sir Nigel.  “Go downstairs,” he called out to the servants.  “Take her upstairs at once and throw water in her face,” to the excited Hannah.

And as the new Lady Anstruthers was half led, half dragged, in humiliated hysteric disorder up the staircase, he took his mother by the elbow, marched her into the nearest room and shut the door.  There they stood and stared at each other, breathing quick, enraged breaths and looking particularly alike with their heavy-featured, thick-skinned, infuriated faces.

It was the Dowager who spoke first, and her whole voice and manner expressed all she intended that they should, all the derision, dislike and scathing resignment to a grotesque fate.

“Well,” said her ladyship.  “So this is what you have brought home from America!”

CHAPTER IV

A MISTAKE OF THE POSTBOY’S

As the weeks passed at Stornham Court the Atlantic Ocean seemed to Rosalie Anstruthers to widen endlessly, and gay, happy, noisy New York to recede until it was as far away as some memory of heaven.  The girl had been born in the midst of the rattling, rumbling bustle, and it had never struck her as assuming the character of noise; she had only thought of it as being the cheerful confusion inseparable from town.  She had been secretly offended and hurt when strangers said that New York was noisy and dirty; when they called it vulgar, she never wholly forgave them.  She was of the New Yorkers who adore their New York as Parisians adore Paris and who feel that only within