e you thought your rank entitled you to amuse yourself as you
liked."

"No, I didn't, but I certainly thought it enough to prevent him
forgetting himself so far as he seems to have done. I wish I had seen
that letter: I wonder how he expressed himself? It is a ridiculous
mistake, but I'll soon put it right."

"To love, and have your love flung back with contempt, is something more
than a ridiculous mistake. It is--" and the duchess stopped with a
quaver in her voice, and failed to go on: perhaps she was speaking from
experience that she was so strongly affected.

In the afternoon, at the usual time, Lady Louisa set out to walk to the
lodge; not that she did not know of what had happened, for she had heard
of that, but she thought it not unlikely that Dr. Brunton might be there
on the chance of meeting her, and the sooner this misunderstanding was
put right the better, especially as they were on the eve of leaving
Birns for London, and she might as well make things straight before
going. She was right in her calculations: Dr. Brunton was walking on
the road outside the park-gate, in the hope that Lady Louisa, not
knowing of the old woman's death, might come to visit her as before.

She came up as frankly as was her custom and shook hands, and there was
no unusual expression in her face whatever; but the doctor had too much
at stake, was feeling far too keenly, to be capable of sharp observation
at this time, and he said, hardly knowing what he was saying, "My
patient here does not need me any longer."

"Yes, I heard of her death," Lady Louisa said.

A great flash of joy thrilled him: she had come here, then, for no other
end than to meet him. He had difficulty in controlling himself. "You
have got my letter?" he said.

"Yes, I got it."

He was silent as he stood before her.

"I got it," she repeated, "but I did not read it: papa took it from me
and read it, and put it and the carte into the fire. I won't tell you
what he said, but I agreed with him, and came to say that you had made a
ridiculous mistake."

He was still silent.

"You knew," she went on--"you must have known from the first--that I
cared no more for you than I do for the shoe below my foot. Could you
think for a moment that I would demean myself by coming here to meet you
or any one else? Could you think it? It is impossible. That is all I
have to say."

"All?" he echoed.

"Yes, all. But I am sorry you should have made such a mistake--very