n,
Aunt Jeannie. I am going to bed; I am, really."

"Fifty, then, Lord Lindfield," said Jeannie.

Daisy went straight up to her room, still making an effort to banish
the thought that Aunt Jeannie had said she was tired, and slowly the
house grew quiet. The steps of men going to their rooms tapped along the
polished boards of the corridor outside, with now and then the rustle of
a dress. Then all was still, and she sat, half-undressed, with a book on
her lap that she was not reading, while a couple more quarters chimed
from the clock above the stables. At last came the sound of steps again
outside; the tap of a rather heavy tread, and with it the rustle of a
dress. Then came Lindfield's laugh, merry and unmistakable.

"Good-night, Mrs. Halton," he said. "I've had a perfectly ripping time!
Never enjoyed a day more."

Apparently she had gone down the passage some way, for her voice sounded
more distant.

"And I also," she said. "Good-night."

Then came the sound of two doors shutting.

CHAPTER XIV.

It was about half-past three in the afternoon of the next day, and house
and garden alike wore a rather uncomfortable air of heat fatigue and
somnolence. The blinds were down in all the windows that faced south and
west, with the object, no doubt, of keeping them cool--a most desirable
condition of things, but one, on the present occasion, but imperfectly
realized. Nor were things much better to the east of the house, where
ran the deep verandah in which they had sat and from which Daisy had
strayed the evening before; for the heat came no longer from the honest
and scorching rays of the sun, but through a thick blanket of grey
cloud, which all morning had been gradually forming over and obscuring
the sky. Southwards there was rather an ugly glare in the day, a tawny,
coppery-coloured light that spread from low on the horizon, where clouds
of thicker and more palpable texture were piled together--clouds with
hard edges and angry lights in them. It was certain there was going to
be a storm somewhere, and that would be no bad thing, for the air was
horribly sultry, and quite distinctly needed clearing.

Daisy was always susceptible to atmospheric conditions, and she had
gone upstairs after lunch to her room, on the plea, a fairly true one,
of thunder-headache. Aunt Jeannie had been eager with sympathy,
smelling-salts, and offers to read, but Daisy had quietly rejected all
these, saying that it was merely a que