it. And Billy knows it. See how
fidgety Billy is, while Ronnie sits with me."

But by-and-by it would be: "No; of course it was Billy--dear hot-headed
impulsive young Billy; and Ronald, knowing it, feels guilty also. Poor
little Billy, who was as a son to Michael! There was no mistaking the
emotion in his face just now, when I merely laid my hand on his. Oh,
impetuous scatter-brained boy!... Dear heavens! I wish he wouldn't hand
me the bread-and-butter."

Then, into this atmosphere of misunderstanding and uncertainty, intruded
a fresh element. A first-cousin of Lord Ingleby's, to whom had come the
title, minus the estates, came to the conclusion that title and estates
might as well go together. To that end, intruding upon her privacy on
every possible occasion, he proceeded to pay business-like court to Lady
Ingleby.

Thus rudely Myra awoke to the understanding of her liberty. At once, her
whole outlook on life was changed. All things bore a new significance.
Ronnie and Billy ceased to be comforts. Ronnie's nervous misery assumed a
new importance; and, coupled with her own suspicions, filled her with a
dismayed horror. The duchess's veiled jokes took point, and hurt. A sense
of unprotected loneliness engulfed her. Every man became a prospective
and dreaded suitor; every woman's remarks seemed to hold an innuendo. Her
name in the papers distracted her.

She recognised the morbidness of her condition, even while she felt
unable to cope with it; and, leaving Shenstone suddenly, came up to town,
and consulted Sir Deryck Brand.

"Oh, my friend," she said, "help me! I shall never face life again."

The doctor heard her patiently, aiding the recital by his strong
understanding silence.

Then he said, quietly: "Dear lady, the diagnosis is not difficult. Also
there is but one possible remedy." He paused.

Lady Ingleby's imploring eyes and tense expectancy, besought his
verdict.

"A rest-cure," said the doctor, with finality.

"Horrors, no!" cried Myra; "Would you shut me up within four walls; cram
me with rice pudding and every form of food I most detest; send a
dreadful woman to pound, roll, and pommel me, and tell me gruesome
stories; keep out all my friends, all letters, all books, all news; and,
after six weeks send me out into the world again, with my figure gone,
and not a sane thought upon any subject under the sun? Dear doctor, think
of it! Stout, and an idiot! Oh, give me something in a bottle, to shake,
a