don’t see how else he is to live. By the bye, who is your protégé?”

Rochester, who was lounging in a low chair in his wife’s dressing-room, looked thoughtfully at the tip of his patent shoe.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he declared.

His wife frowned, a little impatiently.

“You are so extreme,” she protested. “Of course you know something about him. What am I to tell people? They will be sure to ask.”

“Make them all happy,” Rochester suggested. “Tell Lady Blanche that he is a millionaire from New York, and Lois that he is the latest thing in Spring poets. They probably won’t compare notes until to-morrow, so it really doesn’t matter.”

“I wish you could be serious for five minutes,” Lady Mary said. “You really are a trial, Henry. You seem to see everything from some quaint point of view of your own, and to forget all the time that there are a few other people in the world whose eyesight is not so distorted. Sometimes I can’t help realizing how fortunate it is that we see so little of one another.”

“I can scarcely be expected to agree with you,” Rochester answered, with an ironical bow. “I must try and mend my ways, however. To return to the actual subject under discussion, then, I can really tell you very little about this young man.”

“You can tell me where he comes from, at any rate,” Lady Mary remarked.

Rochester shook his head.

“He comes from the land of mysteries,” he declared. “I really am ashamed to be so disappointing, but I only met him once before in my life.”

Lady Mary sighed gently.

“It is almost a relief,” she said, “to hear you admit that you have seen him before at all. Please tell me where it was that you met,” she added, studying the effect of a tiara upon her splendidly coiffured hair.

“I met him,” Rochester answered, “sitting with his back to a rock on the top of one of my hills.”

“What, you mean here at Beauleys?” Lady Mary asked.

“On Beacon Hill,” her husband assented. “It was seven years ago, and as you can gather from his present appearance, he was little more than a boy. He sat there in the twilight, seeing things down in the valley which did not and never had existed—seeing things that never were born, you know—things for which you stretch out your arms, only to find them float away. He was quite young, of course.”

Lady Mary turned around.

“Henry!” she exclaimed.

“My dear?”

“You are absolutely the most irritating person I ever attempted to live with!”

“And I have tried so hard to make myself agreeable,” he sighed.

“You are one of those uncomfortable people,” she declared, “who loathe what they call the obvious, and adore riddles. You would commit any sort of mental gymnastic rather than answer a plain question in a straightforward manner.”

“It is perfectly true,” he admitted. “You have such insight, my dear Mary.”

“I am to take it, then,” she continued, “that you know absolutely nothing about your protégé? You know nothing, for instance, about his family, or his means?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he admitted. “He has an uncommon name, but I believe that I gathered from him once that his parentage was not particularly exalted.”

“At least,” she said, with a little sigh, “he is quite presentable. I call him, in fact, remarkably good-looking, and his manners leave nothing to be desired. He has lived abroad, I should think.”

“He may have lived anywhere,” Rochester admitted.

“Well, I’ll have him next me at dinner,” she declared. “I daresay I shall find out all about him pretty soon. Come, Henry, I am quite sure that everyone is down. You and I play host and hostess so seldom that we have forgotten our manners.”

They descended to the drawing-room, and Lady Mary murmured her apologies. Everyone, however, seemed too absorbed to hear them. They were listening to Saton, who was standing, the centre of a little group, telling stories.

“It was in Buenos Ayres,” Rochester heard him conclude, amidst a ripple of laughter. “I can assure you that I saw the incident with my own eyes.”

Lois Champneyes—an heiress, pretty, and Rochester’s ward—came floating across the room to them. She wore a plain muslin gown, of simpler cut than was usually seen at Lady Mary’s house-parties, and her complexion showed no signs whatever of town life. Her hair—it was bright chestnut color, merging in places to golden—was twisted simply in one large coil on the top of her head. She wore no jewelry, and she had very much the appearance of a child just escaped from the schoolroom.

“Mary,” she exclaimed, drawing her hostess on one side, “you must send me in with Mr. Saton! He is perfectly charming, and isn’t it a lovely name? Do tell me who he is, and whether I may fall in love with him.”

Lady Mary nodded.

“My dear child,” she said, “I shall do nothing of the sort. You are not nearly old enough to take care of yourself, and we know nothing about this young man at all. Besides, I want him for myself.”

“You are the most selfish hostess I ever stayed with,” Lois declared, turning away with a little pout. “Never mind! I’ll make him talk to me after dinner.”

“Is your friend in the diplomatic service?” Lord Penarvon asked Rochester. “He is a most amusing fellow.”

“Not at present, at any rate,” Rochester answered. “I really forget what he used to do when I met him first. As a matter of fact, I have seen very little of him lately.”

A servant announced dinner, and they all trooped across the hall a little informally. It was only a small party, and Lady Mary was a hostess whose ideas were distinctly modern. Conversation at first was nearly altogether general. Saton, without in any way asserting himself, bore at least his part in it. He spoke modestly enough, and yet everything he said seemed to tell. From the first, the dinner was a success.

Rochester found himself listening with a curiosity for which he could not wholly account, to this young man, seated only a few feet away. His presence was so decidedly piquant. It appealed immensely to his sense of humor. Saton’s appearance was in every respect irreproachable. His tie was perfectly tied, his collar of the latest shape. His general appearance was that of an exceedingly smart young man about town. The only sign of eccentricity which he displayed was an unobtrusive eyeglass, suspended from his neck by a narrow black ribbon, and which he had only used to study the menu.

Rochester looked at him across the white tablecloth, with its glittering load of silver and glass, its perfumed banks of pink blossoms, and told himself that one at least of his somewhat eccentric experiments had borne strange fruit. He thought of that night upon the hillside, the boy’s passionate words, his almost wild desire to realize, to turn into actual life, the fantasies which were then only the creation of his fancy. How far had he realized them, he wondered? What did this alteration in his exterior denote? From a few casual and half-forgotten inquiries, Rochester knew that he was the son, or rather the orphan of working-people in the neighboring town. There was nothing in his blood to make him in any way the social equal of these men and women amongst whom he now sat with such perfect self-possession. Rochester found himself watching for some traces of inferior breeding, some lapse of speech, some signs of an innate lack of refinement. The absence of any of these things puzzled him. Saton was assured, without being over-confident. He spoke