It was a week after the departure of Dyce Lashmar.

Lady Ogram had lived in agitation, a state which she knew to be the worst possible for her health.

Several times she had taken long drives to call upon acquaintances, a habit suspended during the past twelvemonth; it exhausted her, but she affected to believe that the air and movement did her good, and met with an outbreak of still more dangerous choler the remonstrances which her secretary at length ventured to make.

On the day following this characteristic scene, Constance was at work in the library, when the door opened, and Lady Ogram came in.

Walking unsteadily, a grim smile on her parchment visage, she advanced and stood before the writing-table.
"I made a fool of myself yesterday," sounded in a hollow voice, of tremulous intonation.