Part 42 (2/2)

”On the contrary,” said Bessie, ”the d.u.c.h.ess offered to show me the place herself.”

”Yes, you may depend upon it she won't let you out of her sight. She'll show you the place from morning till night.”

”You've a theory for everything,” our young woman a little more helplessly allowed.

”And you apparently have none for anything.”

”I saw no attempt to 'overawe' us,” Bessie nevertheless persisted.

”Their manners weren't fine.”

”They were not even good!” Mrs. Westgate declared.

Her sister had a pause, but in a few moments claimed the possession of an excellent theory. ”They just came to look at me!” she brought out as with much ingenuity. Mrs. Westgate did the idea justice; she greeted it with a smile and p.r.o.nounced it a credit to a fresh young mind; while in reality she felt that the girl's scepticism, or her charity, or, as she had sometimes called it appropriately, her idealism, was proof against irony. Bessie, however, remained meditative all the rest of that day and well on into the morrow. She privately ached-almost as under a dishonour-with the aftersense of having been inspected in that particular way.

On the morrow before luncheon Mrs. Westgate, having occasion to go out for an hour, left her sister writing a letter. When she came back she met Lord Lambeth at the door of the hotel and in the act of leaving it.

She thought he looked considerably embarra.s.sed; he certainly, she said to herself, had no spring. ”I'm sorry to have missed you. Won't you come back?” she asked.

”No-I can't. I've seen your sister. I can never come back.” Then he looked at her a moment and took her hand. ”Good-bye, Mrs.

Westgate-you've been very kind to me.” And with what she thought a strange sad air on his handsome young face he turned away.

She went in only to find Bessie still writing her letter; find her, that is, seated at the table with the arrested pen in her hand. She put her question after a moment. ”Lord Lambeth has been here?”

Then Bessie got up and showed her a pale serious face-bending it on her for some time, confessing silently and, a little, pleading. ”I told him,” the girl said at last, ”that we couldn't go to Branches.”

Mrs. Westgate gave a gasp of temporary disappointment. ”He might have waited,” she nevertheless smiled, ”till one had seen the Castle.” An hour afterwards she spoke again. ”I do wish, you know, you might have accepted him.”

”I couldn't,” said Bessie, with the slowest gravest gentlest of headshakes.

”He's really such a dear,” Mrs. Westgate pursued.

”I couldn't,” Bessie repeated.

”If it's only,” her sister added, ”because those women will think they succeeded-that they paralysed us!”

Our young lady turned away, but presently added: ”They were interesting.

I should have liked to see them again.”

”So should I!” cried Mrs. Westgate, with much point.

”And I should have liked to see the Castle,” said Bessie. ”But now we must leave England.”

Her sister's eyes studied her. ”You won't wait to go to the National Gallery?”

”Not now.”

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