train.

Mrs. Lancing bought a book and some papers at the bookstall. There were any amount of papers at Yelverton, but she never could deny herself the joy of spending.

"I believe I downright hate him," she said to herself fretfully; "he is a real 'bourgeois.' Why does such a man come amongst us if he does not like our ways?"

When the London train steamed in there was only one first-class compartment, and, as Haverford opened the door for Mrs. Lancing to enter, the only occupant, a young man, glanced up casually.

Camilla Lancing drew back imperceptibly for an instant as she caught sight of him, but if she had intended to retreat, this intention was frustrated, for the young man flung aside his newspaper and started to his feet.

"Hallo, there!" he exclaimed. "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Here's luck! Who'd have thought of meeting you, Mrs. Lancing? I'm just home from Yankee land, and am toddling down to Yelverton for the night. Any chance of your being there?"

Mrs. Lancing laughingly explained the situation, and introduced the two men.

Sir Samuel Broxbourne looked keenly at Haverford.

"So that's the factory Johnny who came into all that tin the other day, is it? Stuck up sort of chap! Might be a parson, or an actor."

Rupert Haverford subsided into a corner and let the other two talk. He was seeing Camilla now in another phase, and one that was not charming to him.

Instead of resenting Broxbourne's rough, slangy jargon she seemed to enjoy it. Her eyes grew brighter, and the colour stole back into her cheeks.

They had so much to talk about. She even used some slang herself, though it sounded almost pretty coming from her lips.

Having disposed of that first moment of awkwardness, even of alarm, which the unexpected meeting with Broxbourne signified to her, she responded instantly to the excitement of the moment; her good temper was completely restored.

When they left the train, however, and Broxbourne had gone on ahead, she slipped her hand confidently for a moment in Mr. Haverford's arm.

"He is such a bore, isn't he?" she whispered. "I wonder why Agnes asked him? She said nothing to me about his coming. I have known him all my life, we are sort of cousins," she added; and then she laughed. "Well, after all, it is lucky Sir Samuel is here, for, do you know, we quite forgot to wire for a carriage? I only hope they have sent a big brougham."

"I am going to walk," Haverford said at once; but this she vetoed. In fact, she had no desire to drive tête-à-tête with the other man.

"Oh, please don't," she said. "I beg you will not leave me. And you must not forget I am in your charge to-day."

And Haverford had to yield to this argument as a matter of course.

The drive was not a pleasant one, however. They were rather crowded in the brougham.

Camilla laughed at this discomfort as she had laughed at all the rest, but her voice had a shrill tone; or perhaps Rupert Haverford noticed this for the first time.

As soon as they passed into the big hall, he left Mrs. Lancing and Sir Samuel chatting with the others and went to his room.

He suddenly felt nervous and bad tempered, and he wanted to be alone. It was a relief not to find his man waiting.

Some letters were lying on the table, and he took them up and glanced at them mechanically, then he threw them down and strolled to and fro in the room in the same preoccupied way as he had paced the platform.

When his servant came hurrying in, after a while, Haverford was staring into the fire with a rather grim look on his face.

"Have everything packed early to-morrow, Harper," he said; "I shall go to town by the first available train in the morning."

Then he roused himself and took up his letters again. The first he opened was written on shabby paper in handwriting that was small and curiously formed.

It was dated the day before, and had been forwarded from town.

"Dear Sir," it ran,

"If you please, will you come and see your mother as soon as you return from the country? There was a little accident yesterday when she was out driving, and she was much alarmed. I am glad to say she was not hurt, but her doctor has ordered her to keep very quiet for a day or two.

"Yours faithfully,
        "Caroline Graniger.

"P.S. I have asked that this letter shall be forwarded to you."

CHAPTER II

When Mrs. Lancing went upstairs her hostess went with her.

"So the dear motor did go wrong, after all," observed Mrs. Brenton, a trifle triumphantly. "I think I had the best of it in my despised one-horse shay."

Camilla threw off her furs with a sigh.

"Dear Agnes," she said, "I hate making you conceited, but truth compels me to admit that for once you are right. A motor is a beautiful thing if it goes smoothly, but when it goes wrong it is just the other kind of thing."

"Of course I am right," said Mrs. Brenton, as she stirred the fire briskly.

She was a plain woman with a hard-riding figure and grey hair neatly plaited, but she had a pair of handsome and kind eyes, and a delightful voice.

"Give me horses," she said. "By-and-by, when I am in my little grave, I have no doubt folk will be switchbacked to America and home again; but I hate experiments—I am a little too old for them—and the best car that is made is only a thing on trial, you know."

She helped Camilla to slip out of the big coat.

"Fortunately, you were well wrapped up," she said. "But what a weight this coat is, Camilla! How can you walk in it at all? When did you get it? I have not seen it before!"

"Oh, haven't you?" queried Mrs. Lancing, in a tone of very real astonishment. "Why, I have had it ages; got it at a Veronique sale. It was absurdly cheap."

She told these various untruths quite glibly, and then made haste to get away from the subject.

She was not a little afraid of Mrs. Brenton at times, although, indeed, she would have been singularly ungrateful—and Camilla was never ungrateful—if she had not realized that in this old friend—one who had known her when she was a mere child—she had a staunch and a loving ally—a friend who in sickness and in health gave her almost an anxious affection, and whose curiosity to know what was passing with her arose from the best motives. But Camilla always dreaded being compelled to answer questions, or having to give an account of herself; she was so weary of having good advice given her.

Of what use, so she argued to herself, would it be to let Agnes know how worried she was, and into what a hopeless muddle her pretty feet had strayed?

"Agnes cannot help me," she said to herself; "and she would only worry and think the end of all things had come if I were to tell her how I stand just now. And then she would scold, and talk about the future solemnly, and oh! I know I should scream if she started the old discussion to-night; my nerves are all on wires! If she could help me it would be another matter, but I suppose a five-pound note would be about the utmost poor old Agnes could produce in an emergency." And Camilla shrugged her shoulders. Just before leaving town for Yelverton she had spent her last available five pounds at a hair-dresser's, while, at the same time, a writ for the sables she had worn so becomingly that day had been sent to her by registered post that morning.

She threw off her hat and veil.

"I am rather anxious, Agnes," she said. "I have had no letter from nurse to-day."

Mrs. Brenton took the bait instantly.

"Anxious? What about? There is no need to fuss yourself; nurse never does write freely."

"She promised faithfully to send me word every day," said Mrs. Lancing, half fretfully.

"Well, look here, I'll go and telephone through for you,"