inted to her crimsoning cheeks.

They quickly flushed a deeper crimson, evidently to the stranger's
amusement. 'Why here comes Maiden's Blush, Queen of all the Roses' he
went on, in a teasing voice. Then, turning to Colonel Purefoy, 'By my
faith, Purefoy,' he said, 'my scamp of a nephew is a lucky dog.'

Joyce's bewilderment increased. What did it all mean? Was he
play-acting? Why did they both treat her so? The stranger's
punctilious politeness had flattered her at first, but, since the
mocking tone stole into his voice she felt that she hated him, and
looked round hoping to escape. Sir Everard was too quick for her. In
that instant he had managed to possess himself of her hand, and now he
was kissing it with exaggerated homage and deference, yet still with
that mocking smile that seemed to say--'Like it, or like it not,
little I care.'

Joyce had often seen people kiss her mother's hand, and had thought,
as she watched the delightful process, how much she should enjoy it,
when her own turn came. She knew better now: it was not a delightful
process at all, it was simply hateful. A new Joyce suddenly woke up
within her, a frightened, angry Joyce, who wanted to run away and
hide. All her new-born dignity vanished in a moment. Scarcely waiting
for her father's amused permission: 'There then, maiden, haste to thy
mother: she has news for thee'--she flew along the terrace and in at
the hall door. As she fled up the oak staircase that led to her
mother's withdrawing-room, she vainly tried to shut her ears to the
sounds of laughter that floated after her from the terrace below.

Madam Purefoy was seated, half hidden behind her big, upright
embroidery frame, in one of the recesses formed by the high, deeply
mullioned windows. Thin rays of autumn sunshine filled the tapestried
room with pale, clear light. There was no possibility of mistaking the
colours of the silks that lay in their varied hues close under her
hand. Why, then, had this skilful embroideress deliberately threaded
her needle with a shade of brilliant blue silk? Why was she carefully
using it to fill in a lady's cheek without noticing, apparently, that
anything was wrong? Yet, at the first sound of Joyce's light footfall
on the stairs she laid down her needle and listened, and held out her
arms, directly her daughter appeared, flushed and agitated, in the
doorway, waiting for permission to enter.

Mothers were mothers, it seems, even in the seventeenth centu