For there before her, as might most naturally have been expected, stood Solomon’s master, Mr Gresham the younger. He was clad in a rough shooting-suit, which, even in that moment of annoyance, struck Philippa as becoming him better than his more civilised attire of the day before.

“He is ugly,” she thought, “but far from insignificant. That square, sturdy sort of figure has something manly about it,” and as at that moment a slight involuntary smile parted his lips, and she caught sight of two rows of perfect teeth, another item in his favour was added to her estimate of the outer man of Michael Gresham.

So swiftly, however, did these impressions pass through her, that almost before she realised them she felt conscious of the vivid colour rushing to her face.

What was he smiling at?—or rather, what was he staring at, now that the smile had faded? Was there anything extraordinary in her appearance? Mechanically she raised her hand to her hair, which had indeed got blown out of the prim neatness which was an important part of her present personification, but it was not the touch of the truant locks which startled her fingers as they touched her face.

“Oh, dear,” she ejaculated, “my spectacles!” For in the exuberance of her enjoyment of the fresh morning air, and her sense of momentary freedom from notice, she had drawn them off and slipped them into her pocket.

It was too late now to undo the mischief, if any, that had been done by their absence. Drawing herself together she glanced up almost defiantly at the young man standing motionless before her, and when she caught sight of the expression of his face, which from that of surprise had darkened into gravity, almost approaching disapproval, it was all she could do to keep silent.

“What business is it of yours whether I wear spectacles or not? What have you to do with me in any possible way, I should like to know?” were the words she would have given worlds to utter in the excess of her annoyance at this new contretemps, heightened by her disgust of herself for the blushes which still remained in angry glow upon her cheeks.

Not the least discomposed of the trio was poor Solomon. In his doggy way he had meant to act the friendly part of reintroducing to each other the two who had seemed not uncongenial companions the day before, and now, though no words had passed the lips of either his dearly beloved master or the new and charming friend who had made him so comfortable in the train, he was conscious that something was amiss—very much amiss, indeed. He stood there glancing from one to the other almost, as Philippa afterwards thought to herself, as if there had been tears in his eyes, so profound was his look of distress and mortification. She was on the point of stooping to restore his spirits by a little caress—she could not resist wishing to do so—when with a sudden gruff “Come along, Solomon,” the young man turned on his heel, slightly raising his cap as he did so, and strode off in another direction.

“I must go, I’m very sorry, but I must go! I don’t know what’s making him so cross this morning!” said Solomon’s wistful gaze, as obediently, but most dejectedly, he trotted away—even his tail a different member of society from what it had been a few moments previously.

“Horrid, detestable man,” thought Philippa to herself, feeling more than half inclined to cry, partly from anger, partly from anxiety, a good deal from pity for Solomon.

She replaced the unlucky spectacles and soberly made her way back to the house, her little fit of elation completely over, feeling, indeed, as if all the mischievous imps in creation had conspired to thwart and embarrass her. To her relief, the being late for breakfast was not added to her other misfortunes, for by the big stable-clock, which she glanced at as she hurried in, she saw that it still wanted ten minutes to the hour, and when the bell rang she was ready to leave her room and come down-stairs in orthodox propriety.

Mrs Shepton welcomed her with a kindly “Good-morning,” placing her as near herself as was compatible with the etiquette of precedence so vigorously exacted in such formal society.

The meal passed in silence, for this was one of the rules at Wyverston Manor—talking only being allowed at certain repasts. And here it may be as well to say that the girl’s experiences of the manners and customs of the servants’-hall fell short of what her imagination had pictured. Thanks to Mrs Shepton’s good management, the household was really to a great extent a model one, and so far at least as the upper servants were concerned, Philippa came across nothing of a coarse or jarring nature. The extreme reserve of her own manner she did not attempt to relax, for she thought she saw that the housekeeper approved of it, though she endeavoured to temper it by gentleness and courtesy on all occasions.

“Do tell me,” she said, to Mrs Shepton, a day or two after her arrival, “do you like the way I behave? I was never in the same position before—among a number of others, you know, in a large house like this. There is no need for me to get intimate with any one, is there? Being here only for such a short time; and yet I would not like to seem to hold myself aloof in any stiff and unusual way.”

Mrs Shepton’s own voice had a trifle of stiffness in it as she replied:

“You have no need, my dear, to be either familiar or stand-off; our upper servants are all of a superior class, and, indeed, the younger ones too are most respectably connected.”

Philippa in an instant saw her mistake.

“Oh, pray,” she said, eagerly, “pray don’t think I was hinting at anything of that kind. I mean,”—and she could not help reddening as she spoke—“any sort of ‘giving myself airs’ as it is called. I really want your advice and opinion as to my behaviour.”

The housekeeper softened in a moment.

“Any one could see,” she said, “that you have been brought up in a superior way. It is not giving yourself airs to be what you have naturally come to be, and no one of this house will like you the less for the advantages it’s plain you’ve had—” She hesitated and stopped. The good woman was as little of a gossip as it was possible for one in her position to be, but she had begun to look for some kind of confidence on the young girl’s part, some allusion to her home and childhood, to her parents and bringing up, in return for what she herself had already related to “Phillis Ray” of her own past history. For something about Philippa had almost at once appealed to her sympathy, and this want of response was just a trifle disappointing. Mrs Shepton glanced at her again. Philippa’s eyes were cast down; indeed, the spectacles at all times made it rather difficult to judge of their expression. More than once the housekeeper had been on the point of begging her to lay them aside for a little, that she might see “how she looked without them.” Just now, however, it was impossible not to notice by her whole attitude and bearing that she was somewhat anxious and depressed, and the elder woman’s kind heart was touched; there might be reasons why the girl could not tell her more.

“I think, perhaps,” she went on after the little pause of half expectation, “as you wish me to speak frankly, that you might join rather more in the conversation—at supper especially. There’s that maid of Mrs Worthing’s—I don’t know her well, she’s never been here before—has not looked at you very pleasantly sometimes, and it doesn’t do in this world to make enemies if you can help it.”

Philippa started slightly.

“Do you mean the one they call Miss Bailey?” she said. “I really have scarcely noticed her. I—”

“That’s just it,” interrupted Mrs Shepton; “not being noticed offends some people more than anything you could say to them.”

Philippa looked grave.

“Thank you for warning me,” she said. “I will try to be more am—more friendly to Miss Bailey in future.”

But unfortunately the mischief was already done.

“Mrs Shepton,” Philippa began again, after a moment’s pause, lifting her head impulsively, “Mrs Shepton, I know what you are thinking—that I might tell you more about myself, and I cannot tell you how much I wish I could. But there are reasons which make it quite impossible—I can tell you one of them—it would displease my—Mrs Marmaduke, exceedingly, if I explained to you how I came to enter her service.”

“Say no more, my dear,” interposed the housekeeper, cordially. “Saying what you have shows your confidence in me, and that is enough. I have seen too much of life, and in my position one comes across stranger stories than you would believe, not to know that the most candid and straightforward people are sometimes forced, by no fault of their own, into positions where they can’t be outspoken.”

“Yes,” said Philippa, feeling rather guilty, though to the housekeeper her tone only sounded sad, “yes; that must be the case sometimes. I—honestly, I may say for myself that I am naturally very frank. I would give anything at the present moment, dear Mrs Shepton, to tell you all about myself and my friends.” She raised her charming eyes to the kind woman’s face—charming they were, and not only so in respect of their undeniable beauty, but also, and in perhaps still greater measure, from their candid and true expression. And in spite of the intervening spectacles, Mrs Shepton read them aright.

“I will not distrust her in any way,” she thought, “whether I ever come to understand her or not.—There is just one thing I should like to say,” she began again, after a little pause, “something I should like you to promise me—if you are in any trouble or difficulty while you are here, something, perhaps, that you would not like to worry your lady about, don’t be afraid of telling me. I will give you the best advice I can.”

“Thank you,” said Philippa, heartily. “I will certainly promise you what you so kindly ask, and I suppose it is possible, with my being so inexperienced, that I might make mistakes. But you don’t think, I hope,” she continued, with a touch of anxiety, “that Mrs Worthing’s maid has taken a dislike to me? I should not like to get anybody’s ill-will.”

That she had some reason for fear was evident, and it added to the housekeeper’s sympathy for her, little as she could understand it.

Her reply was not altogether reassuring; she was too honest to make it so.

”‘Ill-will’ is a strong word,” she said, “but I can’t say that I think Miss Bailey likes you; that was why I gave you the little warning about seeming so stand-off,” “I will be very careful,” said Philippa.

And as the days went on, Miss Raynsworth felt more and more glad to have had this conversation with the housekeeper, for, as she realised increasingly the complications to which by her rash action she was exposing herself and her sister, she grew conscious of many little awkwardnesses which she had never thought of or in the least foreseen, and which might have aroused the suspicion of a commoner-minded woman than the good old housekeeper. Among these was the fact of her apparently receiving no letters, the importance of which she perhaps exaggerated, from Bailey’s drawing attention to it once or twice when the servants’-hall correspondence was distributed at table. In reality the letters she had received, under cover to Evelyn, had enormously added to her anxiety and caused her the greatest distress—distress which was all the more hard to bear as she had to endure it alone, for her parents charged her on no account to upset Evelyn, under the circumstances of her present surroundings especially, by telling her of their very grave displeasure.

“I cannot conceive,” wrote her mother, “how you ventured to do such a thing, so utterly to set at nought all your father and I could not but feel at a daughter of ours placing herself in such a position. Your father was on the point at first of setting off, at all costs, to bring you back again, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded him to give up doing so, by reminding him on whom the ‘costs’ in this case would fall—I mean poor Evelyn and her husband. Such an esclandre would certainly have been utterly fatal to the Headforts thinking well of Duke’s wife or her family. We are very annoyed with Evelyn herself, too, for not insisting on your returning the moment she found you were in the train, and to prevent her doing so you must have made an unjustifiable use of your greater strength of character and determination to carry out your own way. I shall say as little as possible to your sister till you are both home again. I am counting every day—indeed every hour, till this visit is over, and I only pray that no terribly disastrous consequences may follow on what you have done.”

It was hard to bear, feeling conscious, as she did, that at least three-fourths of her motives had been purely unselfish, and only now did Philippa allow to herself that a certain love of adventure—a touch of the reckless impulsiveness and defiance of conventionality which Maida Lermont, though vaguely, had been conscious of in her young cousin—only now did it dawn upon the girl that these less worthy incentives had gone far to make up the remaining balance.

“I have never meant to be wild or headstrong,” she said to herself. “I have always thought I was almost too practical and unimpulsive. I planned all this so carefully and even cautiously. I never dreamt of papa and mamma taking it up so severely; I don’t think they ever have been really angry with me before in my life. And after all,” with a touch of half-humorous defiance, as she dashed away the tears which she dared not indulge in, for fear of her sister’s discovering them, “after all, I do not know what Evelyn would have done without me. I am perfectly certain she would not have got on so well; most assuredly she would not have looked as she has done!”

For Philippa’s rule over her sister had been a very stringent one. Mrs Marmaduke Headfort was not allowed to overtire herself by walking too far or driving too long, by sitting up too late, or spasmodically getting up too early, all of which vagaries she was addicted to when her own mistress. Her tonic was never forgotten, nor her stated hours of resting curtailed. In consequence of all these precautions, Evelyn looked and felt wonderfully invigorated. The credit of this was attributed by her well-pleased hosts, and in part by herself, to the bracing air of Wyverston, and Philippa was too unselfish and generous to feel annoyed at this, though she secretly hugged herself with satisfaction as to what she knew had been her own share in this good state of things.

“I don’t think mamma can be so vexed with me when I tell her about it,” she thought. “She does know that Evelyn is not fit to take care of herself.”

There was really, for the moment, no crumpled rose-leaf in young Mrs Headfort’s path. To her facile nature, in spite of her capacity for “fussing,” it came easy to accept things as she found them. Long before the first week was at an end she had got used to the anomalous position in which her sister, and, to a certain extent through her sister, she herself were placed. Beyond this, she even allowed herself the gratification of claiming Philippa’s admiration for her strong-minded behaviour.

“I really think I have managed beautifully,” she said. “I have not worried about you at all, Phil, and I have determined not to be homesick for Bonny and Vanda, though,” with a sudden realisation of what she owed to her sister, “I’m quite sure my good spirits are principally owing to your being here.”

And Philippa felt rewarded.

By this time Miss Raynsworth had begun to breathe more freely. No further contretemps had as yet occurred. She had been most careful to keep out of the way of the guests in the house, more especially the two Greshams, for, after hearing from Evelyn of her conversation on the night of her arrival with the elder of the cousins, she could no longer deceive herself as to his identity with the handsome, silent man whose personality had somehow impressed her at Dorriford, and she was even more afraid of coming across him than of again meeting Solomon’s master.

To poor Solomon himself she had more than once been obliged to be positively cruel, for whenever she caught sight of his tan-coloured person she was seized with terror lest her other travelling companion should be near at hand. In those days it is to be feared that the dachshund’s belief in the stability of woman’s friendship received some severe shocks. One afternoon in particular he happened to run against Miss Raynsworth in one of the back passages not far from Mrs Shepton’s room, and the girl, thinking herself for once safe from dangerous observation, stooped down and patted him affectionately. No sooner had she done so than she bitterly regretted it, for coming towards her, but a few paces off, she descried his master’s familiar figure. The dog by this time was in a state of frantic delight; at all costs she must get rid of him.

“Down, down,” she said, in a cruelly repressive tone, which poor Solomon would have understood even without the stern “Come here, sir,” from Michael Gresham which followed; and as she hurried along the passage she could not resist glancing back over her shoulder in pity for her four-footed admirer. Mr Gresham was not to be seen—what had become of him?—but Solomon was sitting on the mat outside the housekeeper’s room, looking profoundly miserable and feeling doubly deserted—by his master as well as by his friend. For Michael had shut the door in the dog’s face.

“Poor old boy,” thought Philippa. “I wonder why he has settled himself there.”

For she knew that Mrs Shepton was not specially addicted to dogs. She liked them, she said, in “their proper place;” in other words, when they were entirely out of her sight and with no opportunity of jumping on sofas, eating rugs, or going to sleep on her best eiderdown quilts.