Cornelia edged round in her seat to adopt a more convenient position, and laid her hand in his with the simplicity of a child. Such a slip of a thing it looked lying on his big brown paw, soft and white, with carefully manicured nails—almond-shaped, transparent, faintly pink. Guest loved a pretty hand, and held theories of its value as an exponent of character. The future Mrs Guest might or might not be handsome, as Fate decreed, but it was inconceivable that he could ever marry a woman with red fingers, or bitten nails. A pure artistic delight possessed him at the sight of Cornelia's little hand, but the soft confident touch of it against his palm brought with it a thrill of something deeper. He gave his demonstration with a touch of awkwardness, but the girl herself was as placidly self-possessed as if he had been a maiden aunt buttoning up a glove. She put question after question, requested him to "show her again," and gripped his own wrist to prove that she had mastered the desired movements. A more business-like manner it was impossible to imagine. Guest doubted if another girl of his acquaintance would have shown such an utter absence of self-consciousness. It was admirable, of course, quite admirable, but— He took up the reins with a little rankle of disappointment mingling with his approval.

Barely a mile now remained to be traversed, as the horse was trotting up the long hill into Norton; at the top was the High Road, at the end of the High Road the gates leading into the park. If anything remained to be said, it would be wise to say it now, but Cornelia seemed to have nothing to say. She sat in erect, straight-backed fashion, her right hand lying on her knee, the fingers of the left rubbing softly up the arm, serenely oblivious of his presence. Guest cleared his throat once, cleared it again, cleared it a third time, but the words would not come. They passed through the lodge-gates and drew up before The Holt, where the groom stood ready to assist Cornelia to alight. Before Guest could throw down the reins she had jumped to the ground, and was standing facing him on the curb. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun fell on her as she stood, a slim white slip of a girl whom he could lift with one hand—a spirit as of tempered steel, which might bend, but never break.

"I thank you for your courtesy!" said Cornelia, clearly, as she inclined her head towards him in formal, old-world fashion.

Captain Guest watched her progress up the narrow path, biting hard at his lower lip. Courtesy! The word stung. The big man felt uncommonly small as he turned his horse and drove slowly home.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

At the first shock of hearing of the accident, Mrs Ramsden's motherly anxiety swamped all other feeling. She forgot to disapprove of a woman who at sixty still wore a pad on her uncapped head, and lacy frills on her petticoat, in gratitude to the hostess who had extended hospitality to her ewe lamb. For the moment also, Geoffrey himself ceased to be a dangerous roue, and became a gallant rescuer, miraculously appearing on the scene of danger. She cried, and wanted to know how Elma looked; what Elma said; how Elma felt; what Elma had had to eat; if Elma's sheets had been aired; if Elma cried—poor darling! at being left behind? And Cornelia answered fully on all these points, not always, it is to be feared, with a strict regard to veracity, but with a praiseworthy desire to soothe, which was blessed with wonderful success. Mrs Ramsden dried her eyes, and opined that life was full of blessings, and that she ought to be thankful that things were no worse! There was a sweet young girl whom she had once known, who had both legs amputated, and died of gangrene, a month before she was to have been married. It was caused by a carriage accident, too, and now she came to think of it, the poor dear had just the same pink-and-white complexion as Elma herself.

"Well, I guess there's not much stump about Elma, this journey!" returned Cornelia, cheerily. "There's nothing to it but a little shock to the constitootion. Elma's constitootion is nervy. What she needs is re-pose. Perfect re-pose! If I were you, I'd send up a note to-morrow, and stay quietly at home. It would naturally upset her some to see you, and she'd recuperate quicker by herself."

But at this Mrs Ramsden drew herself up with a chilly dignity. She must certainly see her child. It was her duty to see for herself how matters progressed. In the matter of removal, she must be guided by what she saw. ...

"Yes, 'um!" assented Cornelia, meekly.

She had said her say, and felt confident that Geoffrey Greville might now be trusted to play his part. As she walked along the few yards which separated The Holt from The Nook, she congratulated herself that the worst half of her explanations were over; but in this reckoning she was mistaken. Miss Briskett's displeasure was unsoftened by anxiety, and was, moreover, accentuated by the remembrance that all this trouble would have been averted if Cornelia had consented to accept Mrs Nevins' invitation to tea in a reasonable and respectful manner. The girl had refused to make herself amiable, had insisted upon driving a strange horse over strange roads, in the face of expressed disapproval, and had contrived to come to grief outside the very house of all others which she was most desired to avoid! Cornelia was flighty enough already; the only chance of keeping her in order was by introducing her to friends who, by their quiet decorum, would exercise a restraining effect on her demeanour. Symptoms of dissatisfaction had already set in—witness that same rejected tea—and this afternoon's experience had established a certain amount of intimacy, which would entail endless difficulties in the future.

Poor Miss Briskett, she was indeed sorely tried! With her own eyes she had beheld Cornelia driven up to the gate by a man who was even more dangerous than the young Squire himself, inasmuch as he was often a visitor in the Park for weeks at a time; his aunt being the proud possessor of The Towers, the largest and most imposing of the crescent houses. On the afternoon on which Cornelia's coming had first been discussed, she herself had remarked to Mrs Ramsden that the girl must be protected from an acquaintance with Captain Guest! It seemed almost too exasperating to be borne that she should have effected an introduction for herself within three short weeks of her arrival!

The spinster's sharp nose looked sharper than ever, her thin lips thinner, her grey eyes more cold and colourless. Cornelia looked from them to the steel trimmings on her dress—really and truly, one looked about as human as the other! The "lonesome" feeling gripped once more, and her thoughts flew longingly to "Poppar," away at the other side of two thousand miles of ocean.

"I feel kinder left!" was the expressive mental comment as the maid swept away the crumbs, placed the two fruit dishes and the decanter of port before her mistress, and noiselessly retired from the room. Miss Briskett had been clearing her throat in ominous fashion for the last ten minutes, and now that Mary's restraining presence was removed, she wasted no further time in preliminaries. "I think it is time that we came to an understanding, Cornelia," she began, in ice-cold accents. "If you remain under my roof you must give me your word to indulge in no more escapades like that of this afternoon! I gave my consent with much reluctance; or, perhaps, it would be more correct to say that I was not asked for my consent at all; and now you see what the consequences have been!"

"I promise faithfully, Aunt Soph, that I'll never have a smash again, if I can help it! I'm not a bit more set on them than you are yourself, and I guess the mare was as innocent as a babe, so far's you're concerned. She wasn't deliberately setting out to annoy you, as you seem to imagine. I guess she needs more sympathy than blame!"

"Don't fence with words, Cornelia, please. I was not referring to the horse, and I have no intention of allowing you to run any more risks. I distinctly forbid you to take more carriage expeditions without a competent driver. I am responsible for your safety, and your father would blame me, if any harm happened to you while you are my guest. I acted against my judgment in allowing you to go alone to-day, but I shall not do so again. Do you clearly understand?"

Cornelia's golden eyes stared at her thoughtfully. An inherent sense of justice made her conscious that her aunt had right on her side, though she might have worded her decree in more conciliatory fashion. The reference to her father also had a softening effect. Poppar'd go crazy if he heard that his daughter had been in any sort of danger! ...

"Well—" she said slowly. "It's a 'got-to,' I suppose! It would be playing it pretty low down, to land you with the worry of nursing me, and keeping Poppar quiet at the other end of the world. But you wouldn't expect me to drive about with one of those fool-creatures from the livery stable taking care of me, as if I were a kiddy? No, sir! I don't see myself coming down to that level yet awhile! We'd best get up some driving parties, with those men at the Manor. They seem to have lots of horses and carts and things hanging round, and I don't see as they could employ themselves better than in giving Elma and me a good time. I'll air the subject when I go up to inquire!"

Miss Briskett fairly leapt on her seat with horror and indignation. She began to speak, and spoke rapidly for the next three minutes, laying down a series of commandments to which Cornelia listened with bated breath.

Thou shalt not hold any communication with the Manor, nor with the people inhabiting the Manor; nor with the guest sojourning beneath the roof of the Manor. Thou shalt not associate with any men outside the circle of thy aunt's acquaintances. Thou shalt walk abroad by thine aunt's side, on thine own legs, and comport thyself discreetly, as behoves a young gentlewoman of good family. Thou shalt remember that thou art a self-invited guest, and conform to the rules of the establishment, or else shalt promptly return to the place from whence thou camest. ...

In a word, Miss Briskett lost her temper, and when a woman of mature years and grey hairs loses control of herself, and lets her tongue run amuck, it is a sorry spectacle. The flush on Cornelia's cheeks was not for her own humiliation, but for her aunt's. She lowered her lids, ashamed to look into the angry, twisted face.

"Yes, I understand," she replied quietly, in answer to the final question. "I guess I understand quite a lot."

"And you mean to obey?"

There was a moment's hesitation, and then—

"No," drawled Cornelia, calmly. "I can't say as I do! Those people have been polite to me, and I'm bound to be civil in return. I never ran after any man that I know of, and I don't intend to begin, but when I do meet 'em, I'm going to be as pleasant as I know how. It's a pity, Aunt Soph, but you don't understand girls! I've not been reared on tea-parties and cribbage, and I tell you straight that I've just got to have a vent! You be wise not to try to shut me up, for I get pretty reckless if I'm thwarted."

"Cornelia, do you dare to threaten me?"

"No, Aunt Soph. I'm kind enough to warn you before it is too late!"

Cornelia rose as she spoke, and walked upstairs to the square, prosaic room, which seemed the only bit of "home" she possessed in the whole big map of Europe; sat herself down, and reviewed the situation.

Aunt Soph had not wanted her! The longing for a real heart-to-heart friendship had been on one side only; that was the first, and most petrifying revelation. She had travelled two thousand sea-sick miles to find herself an unwelcome guest, imprisoned within the four square walls of a nook-less Nook; bound fast in the trammels of old-world conventions. "My country, 'tis of thee, sw-e-et land of libertee!" murmured Cornelia, mournfully, beneath her breath. Two big tears rose in her golden eyes, and her lips quivered. Should she pack up, and sail for home forthwith? For a moment the temptation seemed irresistible, but only for a moment. Poppar would feel badly if his two nearest relations came to an open rupture; and besides, "When I make up my mind to do a thing, I get there—ev-er-y time!" said the girl, staunchly. "I guess it'll take more than four weeks of this country to daunt Cornelia E Briskett, if she's got her head set to stay. For one thing, I've taken in hand to start Elma Ramsden on the road to liberty, and there's going to be a fight before she's through. I'll have to stand by, and be ready with the drill. As for Aunt Soph, she's acted pretty meanly, letting me come along when she hated to have me, but for Poppar's sake I'll be as meek as I know how. I thought we were going to be friends, but she's such a back number she don't even remember how it felt to be a girl, and it's not a mite of use arguing. She thinks she knows better than I do!" Cornelia gurgled amused incredulity. "Well, it's as easy as pie to hev a little prank on my own account, and prank I must, if I'm to last out another three months in this secluded seminary. My constitootion's fed on excitement! I should wilt away without it. Poppar wouldn't like to have me wilt!" ... She sat gazing out of the window; gazing—gazing, while a slow smile curled the corners of her lips.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

Two golden days! Summer sunshine, roses, lounging chairs set behind sheltering trees, grey eyes eloquent with unspoken vows; on every side beauty, and luxury, and sweet fostering care. Elma felt as if she had fallen asleep, and awakened in a fairyland more wonderful than her wildest dreams!

On the morning after the accident, Mrs Ramsden had duly chartered a fly, and driven to the Manor with intent to bring her daughter home without delay. During the night watches old dreads had revived; she shuddered at the thought of Elma left alone—poor, innocent darling!— with that terrible young man; pursed her lips at the recollection of Madame's frivolities, and decided that nothing but grimmest necessity should induce her to prolong the danger. She entered the Manor, a Spartan matron prepared to fight to the death for the rescue of her child, but behold, instead of a battlefield, there stretched before her eye a scene of pastoral simplicity, in which the most Puritan of critics could not have discovered an objectionable detail.

A wide, velvet lawn, shaded by a belt of grand old beeches; a deck chair placed in the most sheltered nook, on which Elma reclined against a bank of cushions, while beside her—marvellous and confounding sight!—sat Madame herself, turning the heel of a common domestic stocking, a mushroom hat hiding the objectionable pompadour. So far as the eye could reach there was not a man in sight, not so much as a whiff of tobacco smoke in the air! As the round black figure waddled across the lawn, Madame rose in gracious welcome, while Elma—Elma's heart began to beat with sickening rapidity, a mist swam before her eyes, and a lump swelled in her throat. She could not speak; her cheeks turned first red, and then white. She shook her head in response to her mother's greeting, and gasped as for breath.

The good lady was distracted at beholding such symptoms of collapse in her quiet, well-disciplined daughter, and Madame reproached herself in the conviction that the child was really much worse than she had imagined. As a matter of fact, the disease from which Elma was suffering was nothing more nor less than pure, unadulterated fright! Fright lest her mother should insist upon taking her home; lest she should be compelled to leave the Manor before Geoffrey returned from an excursion carefully timed to end just as his mother drove out to keep an appointment in the town! She was literally paralysed with fear. It seemed as if life itself hung on the issue of the next few moments. She shut her eyes and listened, with palpitating breath, to the conversation between the two ladies.

"Don't be alarmed! It is just seeing you that has upset her. A few minutes ago she was quite gay. Weren't you gay, dear? We have had such a happy little morning together. So long as she is absolutely quiet she seems quite well. But as you see, any excitement—" Madame gesticulated eloquently behind Elma's back. "Excitement prostrates you, doesn't it, dear? We must keep you quite a prisoner for the next few days!"

Mrs Ramsden sat down heavily on a wicker chair, folded her hands on her sloping lap, and sighed resignedly. Hardly a moment had elapsed since her arrival, but already her cause was lost. To subject Elma to the fatigue of returning home would be madness, when even an ordinary meeting had so disastrous effect; to refuse hospitality so charmingly offered would be ungracious in the extreme. There was nothing for it but to submit with a good grace, and submit she did, arranging to send up a box of clothing later in the afternoon, and promising to drive up again in a few days' time. "A few days!" She wanted to come every single morning, but Madame sweetly ignored her hints, and Elma, brightening into something wonderfully like her old self, declared that there was not the slightest cause for anxiety.

"I shall be quite well, mother dear!" she murmured affectionately as the poor lady stooped to kiss her before hurrying away, carefully mindful of the fare of the waiting fly. "Quite well, and—happy!" The pink flamed again at that last word, and Madame stroked the soft cheek caressingly.

"That child is a picture! I love to look at her," she said gushingly, as the two ladies recrossed the lawn. "How cruel of you to have kept her to yourself all this time. Really, do you know, I hardly realised that you had a daughter. But we are going to alter all that, aren't we? So sweet of you to trust her to me!"

Madame's conversation was a mixture of questions and exclamations, but she rarely paused for a reply. She prattled unceasingly as she saw her guest into her fly, and watched her drive down the avenue. Poor old Goody Ramsden; she was a worthy old dear! Wrapped up in that child; terrified to move her, yet terrified to leave her behind! Madame smiled in amused understanding of the good lady's scruples. What duckings and cacklings would go on in the parlours of the Park! What fears and forebodings would be experienced for the safety of the dove in the eagle's nest! Out of a pure spirit of bravado she was inclined to keep the child as long as possible; and the fact of Geoffrey's obvious admiration only strengthened her determination. It was dull for a young man with only his mother in the house. Let him amuse himself with this pretty girl. A few days flirtation would put him in good humour, and there was no danger of anything serious. Geoffrey never was serious. His flirtations could be counted by the score, but they held no connection with his future marriage. That must be a serious business arrangement, involving a name, a fortune, possibly a title; many tangible qualities would be demanded from the future mistress of the Manor.

Madame went through life regarding every person and thing from her own personal standpoint; apart from herself they ceased to interest. She would be affectionate and gushing to Elma Ramsden so long as the girl remained a guest under her roof; when she returned to The Holt she would promptly fade out of recollection. That a broken heart might be among the impedimenta which she would carry away with her, was a possibility which never once entered into the calculation. A typical Society woman! Verily, Goody Ramsden's fears were not built without a foundation!

An hour later Madame was driving out of her own gates, while Geoffrey was installed on her seat by the invalid's couch. A whole hour and a half still remained before the gong would sound the summons to luncheon; an hour and a half of solitude beneath the shadow of the trees! Last night there had been another tete-a-tete while Madame and Captain Guest played piquet at the end of the room; this morning there had been yet another, when Elma was first installed in the garden, and Madame was interviewing her staff. Astonishing how intimate two people can become in two long conversations! Marvellous in what unison two separate minds may move! Geoffrey and Elma seemed constantly to be discovering fresh subjects on which they thought alike, longed alike, hoped, grieved, joyed, failed and fought, in precisely the same interesting fashion! Each discovery was a fresh joy, a fresh surprise. "Do you really?" "Why, so do I!" "How strange it seems!" In the garden of Eden these surprises grow on every bush!

Elma's heart was hopelessly out of keeping, but conscience still fought feebly against temptation. She had been trained to consider no man worthy of her regard who did not attend Saint Nathaniel's Parish Church, eschew amusements, wear a blue ribbon in his coat, belong to the Anti- Tobacco League, and vote with the Conservative Party! In the watches of the night she had decided that it was her duty to use her influence to lead this dear worldling into better ways, and, to his credit be it said, the dear worldling appeared most eager to be reformed. He besought Miss Ramsden to "pitch into him"; declared that he knew, don't you know, that he was an "awful rotter"; but represented himself as waiting eagerly to be guided in the way in which he should go. How was he to begin?

Elma puckered her delicate eyebrows. She was wearing no hat, as it was more comfortable to recline against the cushions with uncovered head, but a fluffy white parasol belonging to her hostess was placed by her side, in case an obtrusive sunbeam penetrated the branches overhead. "I never know where the sun is going to move next. Men always do, don't they? I think it is so clever of them!" Madame had declared in her charming, inconsequent fashion as she fluttered away. Elma did not need the parasol as a shade, but it came in very usefully as a plaything in moments of embarrassment. There was one all-important subject weighing on her mind; she made a desperate plunge, and put it into words—

"You—you don't go to church!"

"Not very often, I admit. I'm afraid it is not much in my line."

"Don't you—believe in it?"

The vague question was yet sufficiently explicit. The Squire leant forward, his hands clasped between his knees, his forehead knitted into thoughtful lines.

"Er—yes! As a matter of fact, I do! Didn't once! At college, you know; got into a free-thinking set, and chucked the whole thing aside. But I've been about a good bit. I've seen countries where they go on that tack and it doesn't pay. The old way is the best. I know I'm a bit careless still. Men are, Miss Ramsden, when they have only themselves to think of. They get into the way of leaving that sort of thing to their mothers and sisters, but when a fellow starts for himself, it's different! I'm the master here, in name, but virtually it's my mother who runs the house. I don't interfere with her ways, but when I—er—marry, it will be different! Then I shall make a stand. Family prayers, and that sort of thing, don't you know. A man ought to set an example. You are quite right; you are always right! Bit shy at first, you know, and that sort of thing, but I'd do it; I promise you, I would! Turn up at church regularly every Sunday!"

"It would be your duty," said Elma, primly. She twirled the handle of the sunshade round and round, and strove womanfully to keep her thoughts fixed on the subject on hand, and away from that thrilling "when I marry." "But it isn't only form, you know," she added anxiously! "It's caring for it most of all, and putting it before everything else!"

Geoffrey gazed at her in a rapture of admiration. He loved her simplicity; he adored her earnestness. In his eyes she was a shining white angel sent down from heaven to be his guide through life. It needed all his self-control to keep back the words which were struggling for utterance, but the fear of frightening Elma by a premature declaration gave him strength to resist.

They turned instead into a prayer, a sincere yet bargain-making prayer, like that of Jacob of old.

"Give me this woman!" cried the inner voice: "this one woman out of all the world, and I will vow in return my faith, my allegiance!" The most earnest vows are often offered in the least conventional language, and Geoffrey Greville was not a man to promise without intending to perform. There was a long, pregnant silence. Elma felt the presence of electricity in the air, and forced herself to return to the attack.

"And there are other things! ... You play bridge—"

"Certainly I do!"

"For money?"

"Shilling points."

"What are 'points'?"

Geoffrey laughed happily. This innocence sounded fascinating in his infatuated ears.

"That's a little difficult to explain, isn't it, if you don't know anything about the game? Don't you play cards at all?"

"Mother won't have them in the house. We have 'Quartettes,' but they are different. ... Can you lose much at shilling points?"

"A fair amount, if you're unlucky, but you can win it, too! I generally do win, as a matter of fact!"

"What is the most you ever lost in a night?"

Geoffrey grimaced expressively.

"Sixty pounds; but I was a fool, and doubled no trumps on a risky hand, on the chance of making the rubber. That was quite an exceptional drop!"

"I should hope so, indeed!" Elma's horror was genuinely unassumed. "Sixty pounds! Why, it's more than many a poor family has to live on all the year round! Think of all the good you could do with sixty pounds! It seems awful to lose it on cards in one evening!"

"The next sixty pounds I win, I'll give to a workmen's charity! Will that wipe away my offence?"

Elma was not at all sure that it would. Money won in unworthy fashion could never bring with it a blessing, according to Mrs Ramsden's theories. She shook her head sadly, and ventured another question.

"You go to races, too, don't you?"

"Whenever I get the chance."

"You like going?"

"Love it! Why shouldn't I? Finest thing in the world to see a good hard race! Wish I could keep a stud myself. I would, if I had the money. I must tell you the truth, you see, even if you are shocked!"

"Racecourses are very wicked places."

"Ever seen one?"

"No."

"Oh!"

They looked at each other and simultaneously burst into a laugh. They were young and in love; it was delightful to brush aside problematical difficulties, and give themselves over to enjoyment of the golden present. Elma forgot her usual somewhat prim reserve, and her laughter was like a chime of silver bells. It is a rare thing to bear a musical laugh. Geoffrey longed for nothing so much as to make her laugh again.

"I'm a born sportsman, Miss Ramsden, and I'll never be anything else. I'd like to give up everything you dislike, but it's no use swearing against one's convictions. It's not honest, and it doesn't last, but I can promise you always to play straight, and to keep down the stakes so that I shall never run the risk of losing so much again."

"Why can't you play for nothing but just the fun of the game?"

"We call that playing for love! It's rather dull—in cards!"

Elma twirled her parasol, and blushed to the eyes.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Mrs Ramsden sent up a box to the Manor that same afternoon, containing a dark linen dress, a blue blouse, and black skirt for evening wear; a supply of underclothing, a grey Shetland shawl, and a flannel dressing- gown. An hour later, conveyed by special messenger, came a second box, accompanied by a note in Cornelia's handwriting. Elma was resting in her bedroom when it arrived. She opened it, and read as follows:—

"Dear Moss Rose,—I guess tight gowns are a bit worrying in hot weather, so I've gotten together a few waists and skirts that may aid your recovery, and send them along with my love, wishing you many happy returns of the day. If it isn't the right day, it ought to be, anyway! I always calculated to be here for your birthday, and I'm about tired waiting. If you send them back, I'll burn them, as sure as taxes, but I reckon you're too sweet to hurt my feelings. Put on the one with the ruckings! It's the duty of every woman to look her best in the eyes of—. What wonderful weather for the time of year!— Your friend, Cornelia.

"PS—There's quite a gale blowing round this corner!..."

"It is sweet of her, but I mustn't, I can't, I really couldn't!" was Elma's comment as she flushed with surprise and embarrassment. It was quite certain that she could not accept the gift, but there was no harm in just looking to see what the box contained! She crossed the room, cut the string, and unfolded the brown papers which covered the cardboard box; lifted fold after fold of tissue papers, and gasped in admiration of each treasure as it was revealed.

The daintiest of white lawn morning blouses, with skirt to match; a skirt and bodice of cream net marvellously rucked with ribbons; a blue muslin, afoam with flounces. All were fresh from the maker's hands, and, as Elma divined, had been selected from Cornelia's storehouse of garments, with careful regard to her own requirements. The "waists" would fit easily enough; the skirts—she shook out the muslin and held it against her own dress. Just a trifle short, perhaps, but not sufficiently so to spoil the effect. It was a lovely skirt! Elma edged away from the glass with a little jerk of the figure calculated to send the flounces in a swirl round her feet. For three-and-twenty years she had gone through life wearing plain hems, and as Cornelia predicted, the flounces went to her brain. After all, would it not be ungracious to reject so kindly a gift? Her real birthday fell in the middle of July, and Cornelia, being rich and generous, would naturally offer a gift on the occasion. To keep the blue muslin would be only anticipating the remembrance.

Yes! she would keep it, and return the other dresses, explaining that she really could not accept so much. But on second thoughts Cornelia had specially desired her to wear the net with the ruckings. ... Elma dropped the muslin on the bed, lifted the net blouse carefully from its wrappings, and held it before her to view the effect. Had mortal hands fashioned it, or had it dropped down ready-made from a fairyland where good spirits gathered pieces of cloud and sea-foam, and blew them together for the benefit of happy girlhood! Elma looked at herself in the glass; looked back at the blue glace silk and black surah on the bed, and thanked Heaven for Cornelia Briskett! Indeed and indeed she would wear the "rucked net to-night, and look her best in the eyes of..." And she would send back the white lawn, and say—What should she say? Perhaps, after all, it would seem rather queer to keep the two more elaborate gowns, and send back the simplest. It might appear as if she did not consider it worthy of acceptance. She would keep them all; wear them all; enjoy them all; and oh, dear, sweet, kind, and most understanding Cornelia, if ever, ever, the time arrived when the gift could be returned, with what a full heart should it be offered!

Pen, ink, and paper lay ready on the writing-table. Elma seated herself, and wrote her thanks:—

"You dear Fairy-Godmother,—At first I thought I couldn't, but I've tried on all three, and I simply can't part from them. I don't know what mother will say, but I'm living just for the hour. I'm going to wear the net to-night, and if I look my best it will be your doing, and I'll never forget it! It's just wonderful up here, but I feel wicked, for really and truly I'm not ill? Captain Guest asked me a hundred questions about you last night, and I told him such nice things, Cornelia! I wonder sometimes whether you are a witch, and upset the cart on purpose, but of course there was the parrot! Madame is most kind, but I don't really know her a scrap better than the moment we arrived. She wears lovely clothes. If it were not for you I should have to go downstairs to-night in an odd blouse and skirt, and feel a worm! I hope you'll come up to inquire. Come soon! Everyone wants to see you again. With a hundred thanks.—Your loving friend, Elma."

"Why am I a 'Moss Rose'?"

The note was slipped into the letter-box in the hall, as Elma went down to dinner that night, lovely to behold in the "rucked gown," and the perusal of it next morning was one of the pleasantest episodes which Cornelia had known since her arrival. Truth to tell, she had felt many doubts as to the reception of her fineries, but the mental vision of Elma's tasteless home-made garments, against the background of the beautiful old Manor, had been distressing enough to overcome her scruples. She dimpled as she read, and laughed triumphantly. Things were going well; excellently well, and those dresses ought to exercise a distinctly hurrying effect. Four or five days—maybe a week. "My!" soliloquised Cornelia, happily; "I recollect one little misery who proposed to me at the end of an afternoon picnic. They're slower over here, but Mr Greville was pretty well started before this spell began, and if he's the man I take him for, he won't last out a whole week with Elma among the roses. Then the fun will begin! Sakes alive, what a flare-up! And how will the 'Moss Rose' stand pickling? That's where I come to a full stop. I can't surmise one mite which way she'll turn; but she's got to reckon with Cornelia E Briskett, if she caves in."

Miss Briskett did not vouchsafe any inquiry as to the contents of the letter which had afforded such obvious satisfaction. She had probably recognised Elma's writing on the envelope, but made no inquiries as to her progress. Relationships between the aunt and niece were still a trifle strained; that is to say, they were strained on Miss Briskett's side; Cornelia's knack of relapsing into her natural manner on the very heels of a heated altercation seemed somehow an additional offence, since it placed one under the imputation of being sulky, whereas, of course, one was exhibiting only a dignified reserve!

Miss Briskett set forth on her morning's shopping expedition without requesting her niece to accompany her, an omission which she fondly hoped would be taken to heart; but the hardened criminal, regarding the retreating figure from behind the curtains, simply ejaculated, "Praise the Fates!" swung her feet on to the sofa, and settled herself to the enjoyment of a novel hired from the circulating library round the corner. For a solid hour she read on undisturbed, then the door opened, and Mason entered, carrying a telegram upon a silver salver.

"For you, miss. The boy is waiting for an answer."

Cornelia tore open the envelope with the haste of one separated far from her dearest, took in the contents in a lightning glance, sighed with relief, and slowly broke into a smile.

"Well—!" ... she drawled thoughtfully; "Well—! ... Yes, there is an answer, Mason. Give me a pencil from that rack!" She scribbled two or three words; copied an address, and handed it back eagerly.

"There! give that to the boy—and see here, Mason, I shall want some lunch ready by half after twelve. Send Mury right along to my room. I'm going away!"

Mason's chin dropped in dismay, but she was too well-trained an automaton to put her feelings into words. She rustled starchily from the room, to give the dread message to Mary, who promptly flew upstairs, voluble with distress.

"You never mean to say that you are going to leave us, Miss Cornelia? Why, you've only just come! I thought it was to be three months, at the least. You're never going so soon?"

"Only for a few days. I'll be back again, to plague you, by the end of next week. Don't you want me to go, Mury?"

Mary shook her head vigourously.

"I'd like to keep you for ever! The house isn't the same place since you came. I was saying to my friend only last Sunday that I couldn't a bear to think of you leaving. Couldn't you find a nice young gentleman, and settle down in England for good? I'd come and live with you! I wouldn't ask anything better than to live with you all my days."

"Mury, Mury! what about the friend? What would he say to such desertion?"

Mary's grimace expressed a lively disregard of the friend's sufferings.

"I don't know how it is, but I think a heap more of you nor I do of him," she confessed candidly. "I'd come fast enough, if you gave me the chance. There's lots of good-looking young gentlemen in England, Miss Cornelia!"

"Is that so? I hope I'll meet quite a number of them, then; but I couldn't settle down out of my own country, Mury! You'll hev to cross the ocean if you want to tend my house. We'll speak about that another day; just now we've got to hustle round and get my clothes packed in the next hef hour. Just the dandiest things I've got. I'm going to have a real gay time in a hotel in London, Mury, with some friends from home, so I must be as smart as I know how. ... Get out the big dress basket, and we'll hold a Selection Committee right here on the bed."

Mary set to work, unable, despite depression, to restrain her interest in the work on hand. The big boxes were dragged into the middle of the room; bed, chairs, and sofas were strewn with garments, until the room presented the appearance of a general drapery establishment. Cornelia selected and directed, Mary carefully folded up skirts, and laid them in the long shallow shelves. In the height of the confusion the door opened, and Miss Briskett entered with hasty step. Signs of agitation were visible on her features, an agitation which was increased by the sight of the dishevelled room. In a lightning glance she took in the half-filled trunks, the trim travelling costume spread over the chair by the dressing-table, and a gleam of something strangely like fear shone out of the cold grey eyes. Cornelia had no difficulty in understanding that look. Aunt Soph was afraid she had pulled the rope just a trifle too tight, and that it was snapping before her eyes; she was picturing a flight back to America, and envisaging her brother's disappointment and wrath. Out of the abundance of her own content the girl vouchsafed a generous compassion.

"Yes, I'm off, Aunt Soph! My friends, the Moffatts, are putting up at the Ritz for a week, and want to have me come and fly round with them. They are going to meet me at four o'clock this afternoon, to be ready for a theatre to-night. I've got to be off at once. Mason's getting ready some lunch."

Miss Briskett stood severely erect, considering the situation. Now that the great anxiety was removed, the former irritation revived.

"And pray, who are the Moffatts? I must know something more about them before I can give my consent to this visit!"

Cornelia handed a pile of cardboard boxes into Mary's hands.

"Take that hat-box downstairs, and pack these on the tray. Don't muss them about! Then you can come back to finish off."

She waited until the door was safely closed, then faced her aunt across the bed. "I'm pleased to answer your questions as well as I know how. The Moffatts are—the Moffatts! I guess that's about all their family history, so far as I'm concerned. They came over with me, and Mrs Moffatt was real kind looking after me when I first came on deck, and was feeling pretty cheap. We saw quite a good deal of each other after that, and she said she'd love to have me do the sights with her sometime. She was going straight through to Paris, to get fixed up with clothes. Now it seems she's back in London. I gave her my address, and she wires me to come."

"You spoke of 'the Moffatts.' Who are the other members of the party?"

"There's a husband, of course, but he's not much account, except to pay the bills. He must be pretty cashy, for she has everything she wants, but it gets on her nerves having him poking round all the while. That's one reason why she wants me. I could always keep him quiet!"

The complacent gurgle, the jaunty tilt of the head were as fuel to the spinster's indignation. She pressed her lips tightly together before putting the final question.

"And your father knows nothing—nothing whatever of these people?"

"Well, I guess I may have mentioned their names. He didn't know anything about them before that."

"And you propose to stay at a London hotel with the casual acquaintances of a few days? You are mad! I cannot possibly allow it. You must wire at once to say that you are unable to accept."

Cornelia stood silently erect. Her chief personal characteristic was that air of hot-house fragility so often seen in American girls, but in that silence her chin squared, her lips set, the delicate brows contracted in a beetling frown. It was no longer the face of a girl of two-and-twenty which confronted the spinster across the bed; it was the face of Edward B Briskett, the financier who had twice over piled up great fortunes by sheer force and determination.

"Now see here, Aunt Soph," said Cornelia, clearly; "this is where you and I have got to come to an understanding. I've been used to going my own way ever since I was short-coated, and it wasn't hankering to be put back into leading-strings that brought me across the ocean. Poppar trusts me, and that's enough for me. You've got a right to boss your own home, but where I'm concerned your authority don't spread one inch beyond the gate. If I decide to accept an invitation, it's on my own responsibility, and no matter what happens, you won't be blamed! I've decided to leave this at one twenty-five, and I'm going to leave, if I have to jump out of the window to get away! Now, that's straight, and we know where we are!"

"I shall write to your father to-night, and tell him that you have gone in defiance of my wishes."

"I guess it's the best thing you can do. Poppar'll cable back: 'Give Corney her head; It's screwed on pretty straight!' and you'll feel easier in your mind." She paused a moment, her features softened into a smile. Despite the force of her words, there had throughout been no trace of ill-nature in her voice. Now she drew slowly nearer her aunt, holding out her pretty, white hands in ingratiating appeal.

"See here, Aunt Soph, don't be mad! I'm sorry you take it like this, for I've a feeling that it's just about the best thing that could happen to both of us, for me to clear out for a spell just now. We've been a bit fratchetty this last week; gotten on each other's nerves somehow— but when I come back we can make a fresh start. In America, girls have more liberty than over here; but there's not a mite of reason why we should quarrel over it. You're my own Poppar's sister, and I came quite a good way to see you. It's a pity if we ken't pull it off for the next few months. Don't you want to kiss me, and wish me a real good time?"

Miss Briskett drew back coldly, but the little hands clasped her shoulder, the young face pressed nearer and nearer. Looking down from her superior stature, the girl's likeness to her father was once more strikingly apparent; but it was not the man she recalled, but the dearer memory of the Baby Edward of long ago, whose clear child's eyes had seen in "Sister" the most marvellous of created things. As on a former occasion, the remembrance was more powerful than words. Long years of solitary confinement had hardened the spinster's heart beyond the possibility of a gracious capitulation, but at least she submitted to the girl's embrace, and made no further objections to the proposed journey.

On the whole, Cornelia felt that she had scored a victory.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Cornelia booked a first-class return to town, scattered half-crowns broadcast among the astonished porters, ensconced herself in a corner of an empty carriage, and prepared to enjoy the journey. She did not purchase any magazines at the bookstall; the only child of a millionaire need not trouble about insurance coupons, and at two-and-twenty life is more interesting than fiction. Cornelia guessed she'd heaps more to think about than would occupy a pokey little journey of from two or three hours. Just to think how things changed from day to day! Yesterday she had supposed herself dumped right-down in Norton Park for a solid three months, and to-day here she was full chase for London, with the prospect of a week, crammed full of frivolity and amusement!

She gurgled to herself in much contentment. Aunt Soph had kissed her, or, at least, submitted to be kissed; Elma was engaged in playing the part of Eve in flounced blue muslin, to an Adam in a flannel suit, in a particularly well-mown Garden of Eden. She could therefore be happy in her mind concerning those who were left behind, and she had never yet doubted her own ability to take care of herself. She smoothed the wrinkles on her long suede gloves, flicked the dust off the ridiculous points of her "high shoes," and sighed impatiently. She and her baggage were safely aboard. Why couldn't that old engine hustle up and start?

Cornelia rose to her feet, and thrust her head out of the open window. There was only one passenger approaching along the deserted platform, and as fate would have it, he had reached a spot but a couple of yards away, so that the sudden appearance of the girl's head through the window was followed by simultaneous exclamations of astonishment. Exclamations of recognition, too, for the new-comer was none other than Captain Guest himself, most obviously equipped for town.

"Miss Briskett—is that you?"

"Mussy, what a turn you gave me! Who'd have dreamt of meeting you here?"

"Are you going up to town?"

"I am! Are you?"

"I am! Do you prefer to travel alone? If not, may I come in?"

"Why, suttenly!" Cornelia was not yet quite sure whether she were annoyed or pleased by the encounter, but on the whole the agreeable element predominated. She was of a gregarious nature, and at any time preferred to talk, rather than remain silent. After a month spent in a strictly feminine household, the society of a male man was an agreeable novelty. Moreover—sweet triumph to a daughter of Eve!—half an hour's tete-a-tete on the drive home from the Manor had apparently made short work of the Captain's preconceived dislike, since he was so anxious to repeat the dose! Cornelia smiled; the naughty, little smile of a spider who welcomes a fly into his net.

Another minute, and the train was movings lowly out of the station, while the two young people continued their cross-examination, confronting each other from their separate corners.

"This is an unexpected visit, is it not? I understood from Miss Ramsden that she expected you to call at the Manor to-day or to-morrow."

(Cornelia scored a point against him, for his own desertion, in the face of so interesting a prospect!)

"Vury unexpected! I got a wire from a friend and came off within two hours. I understood from Mrs Greville that you were making quite a good stay?"

Guest grimaced eloquently.

"I was—but—circumstances alter cases! To tell you the honest truth, Miss Briskett, I'm just a bit fed up with playing gooseberry by day, and piquet (with Madame!) by night, and the idea of spending a few days at the club presented itself as an agreeable novelty. My friends are almost all in town just now, and there is a good deal going on. I generally put in a week or so of the season, so I thought I might as well clear out at once. They don't want me here!"

"I don't know about that," returned Cornelia, thoughtfully. "What about Madame? Someone's got to keep her occupied! What's to happen to her in the evenings now? There'll be nothing for it but a three-handed game, and that's the limit! If you'd been a kind, self-sacrificing friend, you'd have stayed on, and worked that piquet for all you were worth!"

"But I'm not self-sacrificing, you see!" Captain Guest explained, and in truth he did not look it. Cornelia's glance took in the magnificent proportions of the man, the indefinable air of birth and breeding, the faultless toilette; the strong, dark features. To one and all she paid a tribute of admiration, but the expression on the face was of concentrated self-sufficiency. At this point admiration stopped dead, to be replaced by an uneasy dread. Was Geoffrey Greville, even as his friend, frankly indifferent to everything but his own amusement, and if so, what of poor Elma and her dream? It was an awful reflection that in such a case she herself would be largely responsible for thrusting Elma into danger. Her expression clouded, and she stared through the window with unseeing eyes. Captain Guest's words had been so exceedingly plain that she had not affected to misunderstand their meaning, and the ice once broken, she was glad of the opportunity of solving her doubts.

"You know Mr Greville very well. Is he—a flirt?"

Captain Guest flashed a glance at her; a rapid, understanding glance.

"He has been," he replied quietly. "A desperate flirt; but—he is not flirting now!"

"You think—"

"I'm sure!"

Cornelia clasped her hands with a sigh of relief.

"Then—?"

"The Deluge!"

"You mean—?"

"He can't marry her, of course! She's a lovely girl, and everything that's nice, and good, and that kind of thing, but—not at all the kind of girl he ought to marry."

"Ought he to marry someone hideous then, with an ugly temper? Poor fellow! Why?"

"There's no necessity to be hideous, that I know of, though as a matter of fact he probably won't find a girl suitable as to means and position, who is anything like so attractive, personally, as Miss Ramsden. Greville is hardly his own master, Miss Briskett. He is not a rich man, and he has the place to think of. Besides, there's Madame to consider. Madame belongs to a noble house, and has high ideas for her son."

"Is it the custom over here, for the mommas to choose wives for their sons? I don't know much about Mr Greville, but from the look of him I shouldn't suppose he was one of that sort. He has a kind of an air as if he'd want a lot of moving, once he got his head set! If he really cares—"

Captain Guest shrugged expressively.

"Oh, for the moment, of course, it's a case of 'all for love, and the world well lost,' but in a few days' time Miss Ramsden will return home; they will drop out of each other's lives, and then prudence will come to the fore. There's a girl whom he has known for years, who is built for him all the way round. I don't say he'll like it so much, but he'll end by marrying her like a good boy."

"By marrying her money, you mean to say? I see, we Americans aren't the only mercenary nation in the world, though we get the credit for it sometimes. Well! I'll wait a while, before I judge. There comes a time in most men's lives when they forget their fine principles, and see just one thing ahead, and they've got to have it! Everything else goes down like ninepins, even if it's a real stately old mother, with her hair fixed-up like Marie Antoinette. We'll wait and see if that time comes along for Mr Greville!"

Guest's lip twitched with amusement.

"You seem to be very experienced on the subject."

"I am so. I've seen quite a good deal of life," said Cornelia, with the air of a female Methuselah. She did not smirk nor giggle at the insinuation, but accepted it placidly as a matter of course, an occurrence of everyday happening.

Guest studied her critically, as she gazed out of the window. Was she plain, or beautiful? It was difficult to say. The colourless complexion, and sharply pointed nose were serious blemishes, but the mouth was exquisite, and the hair a marvel. How Rossetti would have gloried in painting it, unbound, with the great red-gold waves floating over her shoulders! The eyes were good, too, despite their unusual colour—the colour of a tawny old sherry!

As though attracted by his scrutiny, Cornelia turned her head, and let the golden eyes dwell thoughtfully upon his face.

"Does Mr Greville do anything?" she inquired. "Has he any sort of occupation in life?"

"He has a certain amount of business in connection with the property, but the agent does most of that. He hunts, of course, and shoots—he's a capital shot—and fishes at odd times. All the ordinary things that a man does."

"Is that so? They wouldn't be ordinary with us. I like a man to work. You've got to work hard, I suppose? You're a soldier."

The quick pucker of lips and brows were almost startlingly eloquent of pain.

"Not now! I was."

"You retired?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Rupert Guest looked across the carriage in silence. At any time he was haughtily resentful of curiosity; but on this subject most of all he could not endure to speak with his most intimate friends. His first impulse was to ignore the question, but as he met Cornelia's steady eyes that impulse underwent an extraordinary reversion. Incredible as it might appear, he became conscious that it was not only possible that he could tell this girl, this stranger, the hidden sorrow of his life, but that he actually wished to tell it! He wanted to hear what she would say; to see how she would look. Those childlike eyes would look very beautiful, softened with the light of sympathy and consolation. He wanted to see that light shining for his sake.

"It's a long story," he began slowly, "I don't talk of it more than I can help, but I'll tell you, if you care to hear it. I come of a race of soldiers: it never entered my head that I could be anything else. My father was in the Lancers; he died before I left Sandhurst, but my mother managed to allow me fifteen hundred a year, and I joined my father's regiment. I was lucky as things go; went through two engagements before I was thirty; gained distinction at Omdurman. At home I had a nailing good time: Adjutant of the regiment. We had the jolliest mess! I don't think a man ever lived who enjoyed his life more. There was lots of play, but I loved the work too, and studied hard, at every branch of the profession. I had the credit of being one of the best all-round men in the service." He laughed; a hard, sore- hearted laugh. "I can say that now without reproach, for it belongs to another life. ... Then—my mother died! She had been living beyond her income, and there were all the legal expenses to face; selling up at a loss; giving the girls their share. She had made a special push to keep me in the old regiment; but in the end it came down to this, that in all, there was barely five hundred a year for me. It was a big blow, but there was nothing for it but to send in my resignation."

"Why?"

"One can't be an officer in a crack cavalry regiment with only five hundred a year beyond his pay, Miss Briskett. It can't be done. There wasn't one of my subs, who had less than eight hundred."

"Don't you get any pay at all in your army then?"

"Certainly; about enough to pay the mess bills, and perhaps the changes of kit. The uniform costs several hundreds to start with, and those fools at the War Office are everlastingly ordering senseless alterations."

"Yes; but—I don't understand! If the pay is enough for your keep, why do you need such a heap more to get along? Where does all the expense come in?"

Guest knitted his brows in momentary embarrassment.

"Well, of course, there are certain things that a man must do to live up to his position. He must entertain; he must hunt; he must play polo. It comes cheaper to him than ordinary men, for he has the use of the regimental stables; but still, things run up. It's astonishing how they do run up! There are a hundred things that are expected of him, and there's no getting away from them."

"Isn't he expected first thing of all to serve his country?"

"That is, of course!" Guest raised his head proudly. "I have already explained that I had served her."

"Wouldn't they let you go on then, because you couldn't cut a dash?"

"Let me! There wasn't a man in the mess who didn't beg me to stay on! The Duke sent for me, and argued for half an hour. He promised me a staff appointment. He said some awfully decent things about my past services. I was glad of that... I said, 'It's no good, sir, I can't face the prospect of being Colonel of the regiment, and not being able to afford as much as my own subs.' We went over it again and again, and he lost his temper at last and called me a fool, but I stuck to it—"

Cornelia drew a sharp breath of excitement.

"You did resign—for money? In spite of all! For only that?"

"It's a very big 'only,' Miss Briskett. You don't know how it feels to have your income suddenly reduced by two-thirds."

"Oh, don't I just! I know how it feels to have it wiped clean away. I guess my Poppar's dropped about as much in one slump as any man in the States!" cried Cornelia, with the true American's pride in size, be it for good or ill. She did not feel it necessary to state that the lost fortune had been more than retrieved, for one of the very few points on which she found herself in complete agreement with her aunt, was the suppression of her own wealth. She had no wish to be judged from a monetary standpoint, and Poppar's fame had not travelled across the ocean. He was just an ordinary everyday millionaire, with a modest little income of from three to four hundred a day; not a real, genuine high-flyer, with a thousand an hour!

"I had to give up my frills and fixings, but I held on like grim death to the things that mattered.—I guess there's something wrong about your army, if a man's got to have a fortune before he can be an officer!"

"A good many people are with you there, Miss Briskett, but unfortunately that does not alter the fact."

"Then—what did you do after that?"

"Cleared out! I sold my uniform for eighty pounds!"—he laughed again, the same sore laugh—"and gave my orderly about a dozen suits of ordinary clothes. The only thing I kept was my sword. I had ten swords hung on my walls, used by ten generations in succession—I couldn't give that up. ... An old chum was going out ranching to the wildest part of California. He asked me to come with him, and I jumped at it. I wanted to get out of the country—away from it all. If I'd seen the regiment riding through the streets, I should have gone mad! ... We sailed within a few weeks..."

"California!" Cornelia's face was eloquent with meaning. She had seen a regiment of Lancers riding through the streets of London on the one day which she had spent in the metropolis; had stood to stare open- mouthed, even as the crowd who thronged the pavement. She recalled the figure of the officer, a gorgeous, mediaeval knight, impenetrably lifeless, sitting astride his high horse like a figure of bronze; a glimpse of haughty, set features visible between cap and chin-strap. Outwardly immovable, indifferent; but within!—ah! within, beyond a doubt, a swelling pride in himself, in his men, in the noble animals which bore them; in the consciousness that every day the pageant attracted the same meed of admiration; pride in the consciousness that he represented his King, his Empire, the power of the sword! Cornelia, a stranger and a Republican, had thrilled at the sight of the gallant Lancers, and—she had visited the wilds of California also, and had received hospitality at a lonely ranch! There was a husky note in her voice as she spoke again.

"How long were you there?"

"Three years."

"Did you—hate it very much?"

The laugh this time was more strangled than before.

"Twice over I came within an inch of shooting myself! We were twenty miles from the nearest neighbour. My friend went his way; I went mine. For days together we hardly exchanged a word. There was nothing but the great stretch of land, and the Rockies in the distance. In time one gets to think them beautiful, but at first... I used to sit and think of home, and the regiment. It was always with me. I used to say to myself: 'Now they are at mess—Now the horses are coming out of the stables—Now they are turning out for polo!' I could hear the drum, and the reveille, and the last post. ... As clearly as in the barracks at home, I heard them!" ...

He stopped short, turning his eyes from the window to look at Cornelia's face. It was distorted, quivering, with emotion; her hands were clasped together, and down her cheek rolled two tear-drops, unashamed. He turned sharply aside, and for some moments neither spoke. Cornelia was seeing, as in a picture, the lonely ranch, with the solitary figure, sitting with his face towards the East, thinking, thinking. ... Guest was reflecting with amaze on the strange antic of fate, which ordained that it should be in the eyes of this Yankee stranger that he should see the first woman's tears shed on his behalf! She cried like a child; simply, involuntarily, without thought of appearance; the tears rising from a pure well of sympathy. To the end of his life he would bless her for those tears!

The train slackened and drew up at a country station. A stout, elderly lady approached the carriage, glanced from one to the other of the two occupants, and hastily moved on. Cornelia smiled, with the tears wet on her lashes. Again the wheels began to move, and Guest said shortly—

"Thank you for your sympathy! I had a feeling that you would understand—that's why I told you. It's not a story that I often tell to strangers, as you may guess."

"My, yes, I sympathise; I should just think I do. I know what even our own people suffer sometimes away out West; but I don't understand," said Cornelia, firmly. "I don't understand—one—little—bit! There's more to soldiering than riding through the streets, looking fine and large, and gotten up like a show. I love to see it. We profess to laugh at forms and ceremonies, but we love them just the same as anybody else, but it was your country you'd promise to serve! For better or worse you allowed you were sworn to serve her. You had risked your life for her; I reckon you had shed your blood. There was just one thing you wouldn't sacrifice—your own pride! You were thinking of yourself when you sent in that resignation, Captain Guest! You saw yourself sitting looking out of the window, and seeing the boys riding off to their sports, and leaving you behind. You cared more for that, than the thought that England might need you!"

"You hit hard, Miss Briskett."

"I hit straight. I know just how you've suffered. Seems to me I'm going to remember all my life how you sat in that ranch and heard the last post; but if I'd been in your place, if America had wanted me"—her small, white face lit up with a very ecstasy of emotion—"I'd have stayed at my post, if I'd had to sweep the floors to do it!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The moment of tension passed, and the strain relaxed. Captain Guest stoutly defended his position, and Cornelia vouchsafed a generous sympathy, while not budging an inch from her ultimate decision. She disapproved, but she had wept; the tears had rolled unchecked down her cheeks on his behalf. After that they could no longer be mere, casual acquaintances.

By the end of the first hour they had left the personal element behind, and were chatting busily about a dozen varying subjects—the English landscape; Trusts; Free Trade; Miss Alice Roosevelt; chafing dishes, and the London season. Cornelia had a cut-and-dried opinion on each, and was satisfied that every one who did not agree with her was a "back number," but her arguments and illustrations were so apt and humorous, that Guest was abundantly entertained. Throughout the entire journey their tete-a-tete was uninterrupted, for though several passengers approached the carriage with intent to enter, one and all followed the example of the stout lady, and dropped the handle at sight of the two occupants. The third time that this interesting little pantomime was enacted Cornelia laughed aloud, and cried serenely—

"Guess they think we're a honeymoon couple; they're so scared of getting in beside us!"

Her colour showed not the faintest variation as she spoke. It was Guest who grew hot and embarrassed, and was at a loss how to reply. He need not have troubled himself, however, for Cornelia continued her exposition touching the superiority of American everything, over the miserable imitations of other countries, with hardly as much as a comma's pause for breath.

Guest sat back in his corner, looking at her with every appearance of attention, but in reality his thoughts were engaged in following a bewildering suggestion.

"They think we are a honeymoon couple." ... Suppose—it was folly, of course, but for one moment, suppose they were! He would be looking at his wife! She would smile across at him, and call him fond, silly little names. He would kiss her—she had beautiful lips to kiss! and hold her hand—it was a soft little hand to hold, and tease her about her shaded hair, and her sharp little nose, and her ridiculous, pointed shoes! They would get out at the terminus, but instead of bidding each other a polite good-bye, would drive off together in a fly, discussing joint plans for the evening. Later on they would have dinner at a little table in the great dining-hall of the hotel, criticising their neighbours, and laughing at their peculiarities. In the theatre they would whisper together, and when the curtain went up on the heels of a critical moment, he would see the tear-drops shining once more on her lashes.—It was a lonely business going off to a man's club, where nobody wanted you, or cared a brass farthing whether you came or went. Not that for a moment he wished to be married—least of all to Cornelia Briskett. There were a dozen things about her which jarred on his nerves, and offended his ideas of good taste. He objected to her accent, her unconventional expressions, her little tricks of manner; while on almost every subject her point of view appeared to be diametrically opposed to his own. In her company he would be often jarred, annoyed, and discomfited, but of a certainty he would never be bored! Rapidly reviewing his life for the last few years, it appeared to Guest that he had existed in a chronic state of boredom. If "we were a honeymoon couple," that dreariness at least would come to an end!

He looked at Cornelia's ungloved left hand resting upon the dark cushions—she wore a ring, a wide, flat band of gold, with one fine diamond standing far out, in a claw setting. American ladies affect solitaire rings, as tokens of betrothal—did this mean that the honeymooning question was already settled? If it were so, the fact would account for the girl's absence of embarrassment in his own company; all the same, he did not believe it, for there was in her manner a calm, virginal composure, an absence of sentimentality, which seemed to denote that the citadel had not yet been stormed.

Cornelia noted his gaze, without in the least guessing its meaning.

"It was the other wrist that was sprained— The right one!" she said, holding it up as she spoke, and carefully moving it to and fro. "It's heaps better, thanks to you. I set Mury to rub it, according to instructions, and—there you are! It's most as well as the other."

"Ready to shake hands, now?"

"Oh, yes."

"Mentally, as well as physically?"

The white teeth showed in a smile of comprehension.

"I—guess so! I never was one to harbour animosity."

"I am glad of that! You bade me such a frigid good-bye on Thursday afternoon that I was afraid you had taken a violent dislike to me."

"My stars and stripes, that's pretty calm! What about you, I beg to ask?" Cornelia rolled indignant eyes to the hanging lamp. "I didn't hev to think; I heard from your own lips what you thought about me! I couldn't rest easy in my bed, for fear you went home and did away with Mr Greville, for making you drive me home. I never supposed I should live to endoor the degradation of having a man do things for me against his will, but I had to come to England to find my mistake. And then you sit there and accuse me of disliking you!—Well!!!"

Guest flushed with embarrassment; with something deeper than embarrassment; with honest shame. He clasped his hands between his knees, and bent forward eagerly.

"You are quite right, Miss Briskett, there is no excuse for me. I behaved like a cad. Things got me on the raw, somehow. I imagined—all sorts of things which weren't true! That's no excuse, I know. I should have controlled myself better. But if I was annoyed at starting on that drive, I was far more so when it came to an end. You had your revenge! And you don't deny that you disliked me in return."

"I did so! I did heaps more than that. I thought you just the hatefullest person I'd ever met."

"And now?"

Cornelia laughed easily.

"Oh, well—we've had a pretty good time together, haven't we? We can let bygones be bygones. You're English—vurry, vurry English, but I guess you're nice!"

"What do you mean by English?" But even as he put the question Captain Guest straightened himself, and reared his neck within his stiff, upstanding collar, with that air of ineffable superiority which marks the Englishman in his intercourse with "inferior" nations. Cornelia laughed, a full-throated ha-ha of amusement.

"It's 'English'! There's no other word to it. You are about as English at this moment as you've been in the whole of your life.—I guess we must be getting pretty near London now, for I ken see nothing but smoke."

"Yes, we are nearly there. Will you—may I call at your hotel some day, on the chance of finding you in?"

"Why, suttenly! I'd love to have you. You could take me round. If the Moffatts have fixed-up a dinner for themselves, some night, we might go to a theatre together!"

"Um—yes!" Guest surveyed her with doubtful eyes. "I suppose it would be easy enough to find some other lady to play chaperon."

"I don't want a chaperon. Why should I? It's no fun having her poking round, and listening to every word one says. It's ever so much nicer alone."

"I don't doubt it, but—in Rome one must do as the Romans do, Miss Briskett! In England a man does not take a girl to a theatre unchaperoned. It's not the thing."

"I don't care a mite. It's the custom with us, anyway, and there's no country in the world where women are more respected. What's the harm, I want to know!"

"No harm at all. That's not the question. It's simply not the custom."

"Do you mean to say you refuse to take me alone, even if I ask you?"

"I do!"

"Then you're a mean old thing, and I shan't go at all!"

Guest laughed; an amused little laugh, in which there was an unwonted softness. Somehow, he quite enjoyed being called "a mean old thing" by Cornelia Briskett. There was an intimacy in the sound, which more than nullified the disparagement.

"I think you will! You are too 'straight' to punish me for what is not my fault. It would be much more amusing for me to take you about unattended, and so far as I'm concerned, I can afford to ignore conventions. A man can do as he likes. It is you I am thinking of. You may not approve of our ideas, but that does not alter their existence, or the fact that whip; you are here you must be judged by them. You would not like to be considered careless of your reputation?"

"I don't care a mite what the old fossils, think."

"I do, then; and I will take no part in putting you in a false position."

Cornelia pouted, but in her heart admired his firmness, as any woman would. She stared at the forest of chimney-tops without speaking, for several minutes, then suddenly turned towards him, speaking in what was evidently supposed to be a lifelike imitation of the English accent, as spoken by the Lady of the Manor.

"Th-anks; aw-fly tha-anks! How varry kind! I shall be charmed. ... Too aw-fly sweet of you, don't-cher-know!"

"That's all right!" laughed Guest, happily. "We'll manage to enjoy ourselves, never fear! There's such a thing as taking two chaperons and letting them play with each other. ... Here we are at Paddington. Are your friends coming to meet you?"

"They are. I guess they'll be waiting on the platform. She's tall and fine-looking, and dresses fit to kill—"

She paused with a sharp little intake of breath, for the train, as it snorted into the station, had passed by the figure of a woman standing conspicuously alone—a tall woman, with hair of a violent peroxide gold, holding up an elaborate white gown, to display a petticoat of flounced pink silk. It was Cornelia's first introduction to Mrs Moffatt in "shore clothes," and to an eye accustomed to Norton simplicity the vision was sufficiently startling. Also—it was hateful to think such things—but, that hair! On the steamer it had been just an ordinary brown!

Cornelia would have died rather than own it, but she felt a qualm. On the platform she saw other ladies standing waiting the arrival of the train; smart, well-dressed, even golden-headed ladies not a few, but none in the least resembling Mrs Silas P Moffatt. A swift desire arose that Guest might depart before her hostess made her way through the crowd, followed by a resigned recollection that that would be of no avail, since the two were bound to meet sooner or later. She stepped out of the carriage, keeping her head turned in an opposite direction, but almost immediately a crisp rustling of skirts, a strong odour of violette de parme, and a loud—"Say! is that you?" proclaimed that the search was at an end.

Cornelia forced a smile to her lips, and acknowledged her identity in suitable terms, and Mrs Moffatt gushed over her, in a Yankee accent, strong enough to cut with a knife, casting the while, arch, questioning glances in Guest's direction. Cornelia suffered qualm number two. Even to her ears, the tone of her friend's voice sounded unduly loud and nasal, and looking from her to her late travelling companion, it appeared that to be "English" need not be invariably a disadvantage. Of course, Mrs Moffatt was not a good type of American; she belonged to the class who brought that honourable title into disrepute. How was it that she herself had hitherto been blind to peculiarities which now aroused an instant prejudice?

"Don't you want to introduce me to your friend, dear? I never came across such a girl. Someone flying around after you wherever you go!" cried Mrs Moffatt, genially, and Cornelia mumbled the necessary words, with an unusual display of embarrassment. She dared not look at the expression of Guest's face, and his cool, easy voice gave no hint of his real feelings. She turned aside to give instructions to a porter, while her ears strained to catch every word which passed between her companions. Mrs Moffatt was talking about her, gushing over her, in fulsome phrases. Cornelia this! Cornelia that! What business had she to use that name, anyway? She had never received permission to do so. It was impertinent to assume such an air of familiarity!

The three made their way together towards the luggage van, where Cornelia claimed her two big boxes, and saw them hoisted on the top of a four-wheeler. The elation of ten minutes back had died a sudden death, and she felt depressed and lonesome. Among all the crowd no one seemed a greater stranger than this woman by her side; in comparison with her, Captain Guest appeared an old and proven friend. She raised her eyes to his, as the cabman busily strapped the last box to the roof, and found his eyes fixed on her face with a very grave scrutiny. She did not know how pale and dejected was her own appearance, how different from the jaunty self-confidence of an hour before; but Guest had been keen to notice the quickly succeeding expressions, and was saying to himself: "She is upset. Something is different from what she expected. It's a bad lookout for her with that terrible woman, but she must have known her before." ...

Mrs Moffatt glanced from one to the other, giggled meaningly, and stepped into the cab. They were alone; as much alone in the midst of the noise and confusion, as in the quiet of the railway carriage.

"Well," said Guest, regretfully; "I suppose I must say good-bye! I'll come round soon to see how you are getting along, and—Miss Briskett, here is my card.—It gives the address of my club. If you should need me for anything, at any time, ring me up! You will promise, won't you? I could be with you in a few minutes."

Cornelia smiled faintly.

"Oh, thanks; I don't know about needing. Mr Moffatt will be round to look after us, but—Norton's my only home over here, and you seem like a bit of it! I'll be real glad to see you."

She held out her hand to him; he held it for a moment in a tight, protective grasp, then took off his hat to Mrs Moffatt, and turned away. Twenty yards farther on the cab passed him, and he caught another glimpse of the two faces; one small and white, the other heavy in outline, and suspiciously blue-pink as to cheeks.

"Thank heaven, I came up!" said Captain Guest to himself.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Cornelia was surprised to find that her friends were not already housed at the Ritz, but had been staying at a private hotel, in a dull side street, where the cab called on the way from the station, to take up a pile of luggage lying ready packed in the hall.

"The fashionable hotels are all crowded out in the season," Mrs Moffatt explained. "We've had our names down for ages at the Ritz, but it was impossible to get in before to-day. I don't know as we should have managed even now, if it hadn't been for you, dear. It worked wonders when we said you would be one of the party. You don't mind having your name mentioned, do you? You've just got to play up to these managers, if you don't want to be put off for ever, or poked away in a back room."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Cornelia, easily. "If my name is of any use, use it for all you're worth. I shouldn't have supposed anyone would know it over here. They don't in Norton."

"My dear, the hotel is crammed full of Americans, and any one of them would say it was poor business to refuse the daughter of Edward B Briskett. The connection might be worth a heap, if you went home and allowed you were satisfied. Silas don't count for anything—he's no push! We might have waited for ever if it had been left to him!"

To judge by the hangdog expression of the said Silas as he came forward to greet his guest at the door of the Ritz, the success attending his wife's manoeuvres had not inspired him with any particular joy. Cornelia thought he looked more henpecked than ever, but he received her warmly, and hovered round to assist with the smaller impedimenta, while his wife hurried forward into the hotel. Inside all was brightness and gaiety; little parties of visitors grouped here and there about the large, light hall; obsequious clerks bowing before one, hoping that the rooms reserved might give satisfaction; begging to be informed if any comfort were lacking; summoning waiters to show the way to the lift. Cornelia was annoyed to notice that most of these attentions were directed towards herself, but as Mrs Moffatt did not appear to take umbrage, it seemed wisest to make no protest. The mistake was not likely to occur again, for with so many guests in the house, individual attention could not extend beyond the arrival civilities.

Tea was served in the Empire suite, which had been reserved for the party, and Cornelia hated herself for feeling so little in sympathy with a host and hostess whose one anxiety seemed to be to provide for her enjoyment. From a printed list of amusements, she was bidden to make her choice for every evening in the week; for the afternoons, river- picnics were suggested, coaching expeditions to outlying scenes of interest, drives in the Park. For the mornings—well, naturally, there was just one thing to be done in the morning, and that was shopping!

"I hope you've brought up heaps of money, my dear. You'll need it. The things are just heavenly this season!" Mrs Moffatt declared, but Cornelia remained unfired.

"I've a circular note; it's all right so far as that goes, but I shan't want any more clothes for ages! I brought over a whole trousseau, and so far as I can see, the half will go back unpacked. They don't dress down at Norton—they clothe! You've got to be covered right up to the chin, and to work in all the blue serge you can, and that's about all there is to it. If you fixed-up like we do at home, you'd make as much stir as the fire-engine. I'd like to mail a few presents, if I saw anything really new and snappy, but I shan't go near a store for myself."

"I shall, then!" cried Mrs Moffatt, laughing. "I got next to nothing in Paris. The shops over there aren't a patch on London, in my opinion, and the language puts one off. I can't get the hang of it, and it gets on my nerves fitting on clothes, and not being able to find fault. You'll have to come round with me, Cornelia. I've been waiting till you came, to decide on heaps of things. You've got such lovely taste. Silas wants to give me some furs, and I've seen an emerald necklace that I'm bound to have if I'm to know another happy moment. I've been in twice to see it, and I guess the man's beginning to weaken. It would pay him to let me have it at a reduction, rather than keep it lying idle. You shall come with me, and say what you think it's worth; but mind, I'm to have the first chance! You mustn't try to snap it up. A few hundred dollars don't matter to you one way or the other, but I've got to worry round to make the money go as far as it will. It's not that Silas wants to stint me; he's not that sort, but he hasn't the balance behind him your father has!"

Silas smiled in sickly acknowledgment of his wife's consideration, fidgeted in his seat, and finally took himself downstairs, to see about securing theatre tickets, whereupon his wife heaved a sigh of relief, and helped herself to a fresh cup of tea.

"Thank goodness! I ken't stand men in the daytime. They don't take any interest in clothes or parcels, or trying-on, but kinder hang round, looking bored and superior! It gets on my nerves. ... That was a real smart-looking man you had with you to-day, dear. Guest? did you say— Captain Guest? English, isn't he? Acts as though he'd got the patent, and everybody else was imitation. I rather like it myself, I don't think anything of a man who takes a back seat." The short, impatient little sigh was evidently dedicated to the memory of the absent Silas. ... "Where did you pick him up, dear? He seems very devoted. Anything coming on between you?"

Cornelia's "No!" made the listener start in her seat, so loud was it, so stern, so eloquent of displeasure. She herself was astonished at the white heat of anger which possessed her as she listened to Mrs Moffatt's questionings. "Picked him up," indeed! What insolence; what vulgarity! What an indignity to speak of him in such words. Her indignation seemed almost as much on Guest's account as her own. A vision of his face rose before her, she seemed to see the curl of the lip, the droop of the eyelid with which he would have greeted such an expression.

"No! Suttenly not! He is the merest acquaintance. There is not even an ordinary friendship between us. I may very probably never meet him again."

"Is that so?" queried Mrs Moffatt, calmly. As the Captain had himself announced his intention of calling at the hotel, the only effect of Cornelia's violence was to deepen the impression that there was "something in it," but she was too diplomatic to pursue the subject. Instead, she prattled on about a dozen inconsequent topics, and finally suggested a drive in the Park before dinner.

"It will freshen you up after your journey, and there's nothing else to do for the next two hours. Just ring, will you, dear, and make arrangements, while I write a few notes in my room. A victoria, or a motor, whichever you prefer, and in about half-an-hour. That will give us time to prink." She rustled out of the room, and Cornelia rang and gave the order, only too thankful to avoid a prolonged tete-a-tete indoors. Once again she wondered how it had come to pass that she had become on intimate terms with this woman, who now jarred upon her at every turn. On board the steamer her own friends had scarcely left their state-rooms during the voyage, and Mrs Moffatt, in a neat tweed costume, and an enveloping blue veil, had played the part of ministering angel with much devotion, during three dreary days, when she herself had lain on a chair in a sheltered corner of the deck; had read aloud, repeated amusing little anecdotes about the passengers, taken her for constitutionals up and down, and even helped her to bed at night. When Liverpool was reached, it seemed as if they had known one another for years. They had kissed at parting, and mutually agreed to meet, and have a good time.

"Shucks!" cried Cornelia, mentally. "It's that old Norton! I've gotten so used to dowds, that the sight of a Paris gown scares me all into fits. I've looked forward to coming to London all my life, and now I'm here, I'm going to enjoy myself all I know. Now then, for the Park! I guess that grey crepe, and the hat with the white feathers, will be about the best I can do for the honour of the flag. You've got to strike a balance, my dear, and plump for neutral colours as long as you run in harness with Mrs Silas P Moffatt!"

That first drive in Hyde Park was a pleasant experience, though the trees looked grey and dusty, after the fresh green of the country. Cornelia, like most of her sisters, had, as a first object, to see the people, not the Park itself, and certainly they were worth the seeing. There is no place in the world where finer specimens of humanity can be seen than in Hyde Park on the afternoon of a bright June day. Cornelia admired the tall, immaculately-groomed men, the dainty, high-bred looking women, with their air of indolent grace. They did not look as if they were enjoying themselves particularly, but she enjoyed, looking at them, and honestly acknowledged the presence of a certain quality unowned by herself. "They've got a far-off look, as if they couldn't see anything nearer than a hundred miles, and were scared to laugh, in case they might break! ... I guess it's what they call 'breed!' Captain Guest's got it, too. We've not much use for that kind of thing at home, but it—counts! If you'd been used to it all your life, it would be a jar to step down..."

Mrs Moffatt knew a great many people by sight, and pointed them out as they drove by. Lady this, the Countess of that, Mrs Blank, who wrote society novels, and was noted for her taste in dress, the beautiful Miss Dash.—"Not that I can see much beauty in her myself. She's not a patch on you, when you're in form!" Cornelia felt a girl's natural pleasure in the compliment, in the truth of which she complacently agreed. She did not envy Miss Dash her looks, but she did emphatically envy her her friends, particularly her male friends, who clustered around her carriage, eager for a word. One felt decidedly out of it, driving through a crowd of strangers, not one of whom turned a welcoming smile in your direction, nor cared whether you came or went. At home, Cornelia was accustomed to be in the midst of all that was going on, a central figure, round which all the rest revolved. She did not at all appreciate being relegated to the position of regarding the fray from the vantage of a hired vehicle!

Cornelia craned her head to right and to left, scanning the passing crowd for a familiar face. It seemed impossible that among hundreds of people there should not be someone whom she recognised, and her faith was justified, for just at the bend near the Marble Arch, she had a passing glimpse of Guest's tall figure, standing talking to two ladies, one middle-aged, the other young, and graceful, and smiling. They were quietly, even simply, attired, but their whole air and carriage breathed that indefinable something which she had just struggled to define: something diametrically different from the ostentatious display of the woman by her side. Theoretically, Cornelia was thankful to escape observation; in reality she felt an absurd pang of loneliness and disappointment, as the carriage bore her out of sight.

The evening was spent at a theatre, and by eleven o'clock next morning both ladies had started forth on one of the shopping expeditions, which seemed to constitute Mrs Moffatt's chief pleasure in life. They drove first of all to the jeweller's, where Cornelia was shown the emerald necklace, a wonderful collection of stones, in an antique setting, with which she herself promptly fell in love. The price was excessive, even for her own deep purse, and she concluded that Mr Moffatt's means must be even larger than she had imagined, since his wife seriously contemplated such a purchase. There was a good deal of bargaining, half-serious, half-joking, between Mrs Moffatt and the very imposing- looking personage behind the counter, but fortified by the advent of another possible purchaser, the latter steadily refused to reduce his price, and once again Mrs Moffatt retired discomfited from the struggle.

"I know just how it will be," she cried, "I'll have to give it up, and then you'll step in, and carry it off before my eyes! But you've got to wait a bit, till I see what I can do with Silas. I'm not going to give up yet awhile."

Cornelia laughed easily. "Oh, I'll play fair. If you give up the idea, I daresay Poppar'd let me have it. He says emeralds suit me better than any other stones; but I shan't break my heart, one way or the other." ... Then addressing the shopman: "Have you got anything really new and tasty for little presents? I might as well look round while I'm here."

Then followed a delightful hour, from the shopkeeper's point of view, at least, when Cornelia examined the contents of tray after tray, and selected "little presents" to the value of a cool hundred pounds: an old pearl and enamel solitaire stud for her father; a hat-pin composed of a big turquoise, and a selection of dainty, jewelled brooches and bangles for special girl friends.

"I'll give you the addresses, and you'd better mail them from here. I don't know how you fix up things to travel safely from this side, but you can do all that's necessary. I'll give you a cheque and you needn't send them out till you see that it's all right. I'm a stranger to you, and can't expect you to trust me right away, but you'll find the money's there!"

"Well, I should think your name's good enough! No one need fear trusting your father's daughter for a few hundred dollars!" Mrs Moffatt protested, while the shopman waxed eloquent in protestation. Cornelia continued to write addresses on the various boxes, without troubling to answer, for the assiduous manner in which her friend advertised her parentage was already beginning to jar. First to the hotel officials; then to casual acquaintances during the evening, and now to this tradesman! It was a disagreeable change from Norton, where the subject of money was never mentioned, and no one seemed to care whether you were rich or poor.

The whole morning was devoted to shopping; in the afternoon the two ladies went out driving, and returned to the hotel, to find Captain Guest's card on the sitting-room table.

"He has lost no time, anyhow!" said Mrs Moffatt, meaningly.

"He has done the polite thing. Now he need not trouble any more," Cornelia replied. On the whole, she was not sorry to have missed the call. Conversation, with Mrs Moffatt as audience, would have been somewhat of a strain!



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

The Moffatts appeared to have few private friends in London, and to show no anxiety to add to their number. Though they displayed an insatiable curiosity about everything which concerned their guest, they volunteered very little information in return, and after three days spent entirely in their society, Cornelia knew little more about them than on the first day of their meeting on shipboard. A mushroom city of the West figured as "home," in occasional references; but the wife frankly declared a hatred of domesticity, while the husband regretted that constant travel was a necessity in his business.

Evidently the present period was one of holiday-making, for Mr Moffatt seemed to do nothing but hang about the hotel, playing odd games of bridge or billiards with stray loafers like himself, and being correspondingly elated or depressed as he won or lost. On the whole, Cornelia preferred him when he was depressed. Exuberance of spirits is apt to wax offensive when divorced from good taste. At times she frankly disliked both husband and wife, and meditated an immediate return to Norton; but as a rule she was absorbed in the interest and charm of the grey old city, which was so unlike anything she had yet visited. It was like turning back a page of history, to see with her own eyes those historical landmarks, of which she had read since childhood; to drive about looking at the names of the streets, the monuments at the corners, the great, inky buildings. Visitors from sunnier lands often take away from our capital an impression of gloom and ugliness, but Cornelia's artistic sense realised a picturesque element which rose superior to smoke and grime. She loved the narrow, irregular streets, the Turneresque haze which hung over the sky, even in this fine summer weather.

The City was a solemn land of work, but the West End was a fairy realm of luxury and pleasure. Flowers everywhere, stacked up in great piles at the corners of the streets; hanging from window-boxes; massed together in the beds of the parks. The carriages blocked one another in the narrow roads; the balconies were draped with awnings; gorgeously- clad flunkeys stood upon the doorsteps, ushering in long streams of visitors. In the City men worked for money; in the West End they threw it away, carelessly, heedlessly, as if it had been dross. The great hotels sheltered hives of strangers, who admired and criticised, envied and scoffed, and flitted industriously about on the edge of the feast; on the edge, but never actually passing over the border!

On the fourth morning of her stay in town, a note, addressed in a strange handwriting, was brought to Cornelia, with her morning tea. She guessed at its authorship before opening the envelope, and reading the name "Rupert Guest," at the end of the letter. "Rupert!" A good name, an appropriate name! Strong and manly, with an old-world echo of dignity in the sound. One could not associate this man with abbreviations or nicknames. At work and at play, at home and abroad, he would remain plain, unabbreviated "Rupert." One doubted if even his own mother ventured on a familiarity! Cornelia read the few lines with lively curiosity:—