by herself.

Ah, my rash tongue! Ah, my nasty foreign temper! Why did I let her
irritate me? I, the elder of the two--why did I not set her an example of
self-control? Who can tell? When does a woman know why she does anything?
Did Eve know--when Mr. Serpent offered her the apple--why she ate it? not
she!

What was to be done now? Two things were to be done. First thing:--To
cool myself down. Second thing:--To follow Lucilla, and kiss and make it
up.

Either I took some time to cool--or, in the irritation of the moment,
Lucilla walked faster than usual. She had got to Browndown before I could
overtake her. On opening the house-door, I heard them talking. It would
hardly do to disturb them--especially now I was in disgrace. While I was
hesitating, and wondering what my next proceeding had better be, my eye
was attracted by a letter lying on the hall-table. I looked (one is
always inquisitive in those idle moments when one doesn't know what to
do)--I looked at the address. The letter was directed to Nugent; and the
post-mark was Liverpool.

I drew the inevitable conclusion. The German oculist was in England!

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH

He crosses the Rubicon

I WAS still in doubt, whether to enter the room, or to wait outside until
she left Browndown to return to the rectory--when Lucilla's keen sense of
hearing decided the question which I had been unable to settle for
myself. The door of the room opened; and Oscar advanced into the hall.

"Lucilla insisted that she heard somebody outside," he said. "Who could
have guessed it was you? Why did you wait in the hall? Come in! come in!"

He held open the door for me; and I went in. Oscar announced me to
Lucilla. "It was Madame Pratolungo you heard," he said. She took no
notice either of him or of me. A heap of flowers from Oscar's garden lay
in her lap. With the help of her clever fingers, she was sorting them to
make a nosegay, as quickly and as tastefully as if she had possessed the
sense of sight. In all my experience of that charming face, it had never
looked so hard as it looked now. Nobody would have recognized her
likeness to the Madonna of Raphael's picture. Offended--mortally offended
with me--I saw it at a glance.

"I hope you will forgive my intrusion, Lucilla, when you know my motive,"
I said. "I have followed you here to make my excuses."

"Oh, don't think of making excuses!" she rejoined, giving three-fourths
of her attention to the flowers, an