Her step-mother--mapping out a new antiquarian excursion for the next day, and finding Blanche's ears closed to her occasional remarks on baronial Scotland five hundred years since--lamented, with satirical emphasis, the absence of an intelligent companion of her own sex; and stretched her majestic figure on the sofa to wait until an audience worthy of her flowed in from the dining-room.
Before very long--so soothing is the influence of an after-dinner view of feudal antiquities, taken through the medium of an approving conscience--Lady Lundie's eyes closed; and from Lady Lundie's nose there poured, at intervals, a sound, deep like her ladyship's learning; regular, like her ladyship's habits--a sound associated with nightcaps and bedrooms, evoked alike by Nature, the leveler, from high and low--the sound (oh, Truth what enormities find publicity in thy name!)--the sound of a Snore.
Free to do as she pleased, Blanche left the echoes of the drawing-room in undisturbed enjoyment of Lady Lundie's audible repose.
She went into the library, and turned over the novels.

Went out again, and looked across the hall at the dining-room door.

Would the men never have done talking their politics and drinking their wine?
She went up to her own room, and changed her ear-rings, and scolded her maid.

Descended once more--and made an alarming discovery in a dark corner of the hall.
Two men were standing there, hat in hand whispering to the butler.

The butler, leaving them, went into the dining-room--came out again with Sir Patrick--and said to the two men, "Step this way, please." The two men came out into the light.