So did Nuttie, who had a secret flattering faith in being the cause of all the poor young fellow's aberrations, and was conscious of having begun the second volume of her life's novel. She went to bed in the elated frame of mind proper to a heroine. There was a shade over all in the absence of dear old Mrs. Nugent, and in Mary's deep mourning, but there is more tenderness than poignancy in sorrow for shocks of corn gathered in full season, and all was cheerful about her.
She had quite a triumph the next day, as old friends dropped in for the chance of seeing her. The least agreeable encounter was that with Mark, who came in on his way to the office, having just received by the second post a letter from his father inquiring into Miss Headworth's state. He met Nuttie in the vestibule, with her hat on, and in a great hurry, as she wanted to walk with Mary to the School of Art, Gerard Godfrey accompanying them as far as the office; and she did not at all like the being called to account, and asked what could have possessed her to take alarm.
'Why, you wrote yourself!'
'I!'
'To Annaple Ruthven.'
'What am I supposed to have written?'
'That Aunt Ursel was very ill with bronchitis.'
'I'll be bound that Miss Ruthven said no such thing. You don't pretend that you heard it from herself?'
'No; but Blanche did.'
'Blanche! Oh, that accounts for it! Though I should have thought you knew Blanche by this time.'