The restlessness which had brought Ethelberta hither in slippers and
dressing-gown at such an early hour owed its origin to another cause than
the warmth of the weather; but of that she did not speak as yet.
Picotee's room was an attic, with windows in the roof--a chamber dismal
enough at all times, and very shadowy now. While Picotee was wrapping
up, Ethelberta placed a chair under the window, and mounting upon this
they stepped outside, and seated themselves within the parapet.

The air was as clear and fresh as on a mountain side; sparrows chattered,
and birds of a species unsuspected at later hours could be heard singing
in the park hard by, while here and there on ridges and flats a cat might
be seen going calmly home from the devilries of the night to resume the
amiabilities of the day.

'I am so sorry I was asleep when you reached home,' said Picotee. 'I was
so anxious to tell you something I heard of, and to know what you did;
but my eyes would shut, try as I might, and then I tried no longer. Did
you see me at all, Berta?'

'Never once. I had an impression that you were there. I fancied you
were from father's carefully vacuous look whenever I glanced at his face.
But were you careful about what you said, and did you see Menlove? I
felt all the time that I had done wrong in letting you come; the
gratification to you was not worth the risk to me.'

'I saw her, and talked to her. But I am certain she suspected nothing. I
enjoyed myself very much, and there was no risk at all.'

'I am glad it is no worse news. However, you must not go there again:
upon that point I am determined.'