screened the arch by which one entered the inner room
were drawn close. Just outside them I paused for a second; I had almost
turned back; then I heard a low laugh and there was the pleasant tinkle
of teacups.

I raised the curtain to pass through, and found beyond it a French
screen. I was about to pass around it into the room when I glanced up at
the wall, on which hung an old-fashioned convex mirror. It reflected the
room and its occupants with a minute delicacy. Her Ladyship, more like a
Dresden-china figure than ever in a teagown of flowered silk, lolled in
a low chair. She was holding a teacup in her pretty beringed hands. In
the mirror her colour seemed more than usually high. She was very gay,
animated and smiling.

There was a man with her. His back was to the mirror and at first I did
not notice him. He was sitting on a tabouret, which must have been an
uncomfortable seat for one of his height and length of limb. He had an
air of sitting at Lady Ardaragh's feet.

I had an idea that my presence would be an intrusion, even before the
man in the mirror turned his head and I recognized him.

My heart gave a great leap. Fortunately they were talking and had not
heard me. Once beyond the curtain I fled as fast as my two feet would
carry me back to Mickey and the phaeton.

CHAPTER XIII

ENLIGHTENMENT

The man I had seen was Richard Dawson, and I had not even known that
Lady Ardaragh knew him, although I had suspected that she would know him
in time. And here he was on terms of such easy intimacy as the scene I
had come upon implied. I had been fond of Sybil Ardaragh, but for the
moment I felt cold and angry towards her. It was a degradation that she
should be friends, should flirt, with a man like Richard Dawson. What
was she thinking of, the mother of Robin, the wife of Sir Arthur
Ardaragh, who was a person of great wisdom and dignity, with a fame
beyond our quiet circles? It was not worthy of her.

We went on and called at Rosebower, the little house of the two Miss
Chenevixes, elderly ladies who had been great beauties in their youth. I
used to think they were beauties still, with their fine, delicate
features and skin no more withered than a rose of yesterday.

Miss Bride was classical, like a Muse, with her dark silky hair just
streaked with grey, looped away behind her ears; while Miss Henrietta,
the younger, had ringlets and large eyes and a languishing air.

It was enough for them to hear