ave forgotten
to give him."

Sylla had not forgotten Mr. Cottrell's message at all, but she thought
it more than doubtful whether that message was intended to be
delivered. She had her own opinion as to the motive of that message,
but, thus challenged, immediately replied, "Oh, yes, something about a
hack from Mr. Cottrell; he told me to tell you he had heard of one to
suit you."

"There he is wrong," rejoined Beauchamp: "a thing can't suit you when
you don't want it; and that's my case with regard to a hack."

"Curious that he should be so misinformed," said Lady Mary. "He
certainly said you had asked him if he knew of one."

"Mixed up with somebody else," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley. "Mr.
Cottrell is a very idle man with a very numerous acquaintance.
Somebody wanted a hack, and he has forgotten who."

If Lady Mary's suspicions had been lulled to sleep during luncheon,
they had been now most thoroughly reawakened. She, like her daughter,
had overheard the conversation between Sylla and Lionel upon the
latter's first arrival. She had always had misgivings that the
relations between the two would change into something much warmer, to
the downfall of her own hopes. She was annoyed with herself for having
accepted the hand of amity extended by her ancient antagonist. She
felt sure that the battle that she pictured to herself on that night at
the Grange, when she had first heard of the relationship between Sylla
and Mrs. Wriothesley, was already begun. She had a horrible conviction
that she was once more destined to undergo the bitterness of offering
her congratulations to her successful opponent. What cruel fatality
had ordained that whenever she had a daughter to settle, Mrs.
Wriothesley should invariably appear upon the scene with a niece? And
in the anguish of her spirit she gave way to very harsh thoughts
concerning poor Sylla's conduct. If she could but have divested
herself of all prejudice, and looked on matters with dispassionate
eyes, she would have seen, as Pansey Cottrell had told her at
Todborough, that things were travelling much in the way she wished
them. At this very moment, when she is inwardly raging against Mrs.
Wriothesley, Lionel Beauchamp is undoubtedly paying at least as much,
if not more, attention to Blanche than he is to Miss Chipchase; but the
spectacles of prejudice are never neutral-tinted.

However, it is time to leave; and Lady Mary, rising, signals her
daughter, and makes