spending part of the vac. with his people.”

“Oh, you’re at Cambridge!” she exclaimed, “I was at the ‘University Arms’ with my uncle, about two months ago. We went round and saw the colleges. I was delighted with them.”

“Where do you generally live?” he asked, after she had told him that her name was Gilda Tempest.

“My uncle and I live a great deal abroad,” was her reply; “indeed, more than I care to—to be frank. I love England. But my uncle travels so much that we have no home nowadays, and live nearly all the year round in hotels. I get horribly tired of the eternal table d’hôte, the music and the chatter.”

“Rather pleasant, I should fancy. I love travelling,” remarked the young man.

“I grow sick to death of it,” she declared, with a sigh. “We wander all over Europe. My uncle is a wanderer, ever on the move and most erratic.”

“Are you staying in Southport long?” he enquired eagerly.

“I really don’t know. We may stay for a day—or for a month. I never know where we’re going. I have not been home for nearly two years now.”

“Home? Where do you live?”

“Father has a house in France—in a quaint little village called By— on the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. Do you know Fontainebleau?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I went there from Paris once, with the guv’nor. We stayed at the Hotel de France—I think it was—at Fontainebleau. We went over the old palace and drove out to Barbison, and to Marlotte. Awfully charming places.”

“Ah! Barbison. That is the colony of artists. I know, I love it, and have often cycled over there, where I have friends. Father is a bit of a recluse, so I travel and look after my uncle.”

“And Marlotte—by the river. Do you know the picturesque little hotel there, and its al-fresco café—the garden with all the little summer-houses?”

“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “Do you know it, too? How gay it is on Sundays in summer. All the artists come out from Paris for the day.”

“It reminds me of Monkey Island, on the Thames. We used to go up there when I was at Eton.”

She looked at him suddenly with a fixed expression, and then said:

“You haven’t told me your name. I only know you as Snookie’s rescuer—you know,” and she laughed.

“My name’s Remington—Raife Remington,” he replied. “The guv’nor lives at Aldborough Park, not far from Tunbridge Wells.”

Her face changed in an instant. She seemed to suddenly hold her breath, though quite imperceptibly. For a moment all the colour left her soft cheeks, but as quickly she recovered all her self-possession, and exclaimed, in a changed tone:

“Is your father Sir Henry Remington?”

“Yes. Why? Do you happen to know him?”

“I—er—oh, no, I don’t!” she replied, endeavouring to conceal her consternation at the discovery. “Only—well—I—of course, had no idea that you were the son of a gentleman so well-known as Sir Henry.”

“My misfortune, perhaps,” he laughed, airily. “The guv’nor has brains—has been a member of Parliament for twenty years, and all that—I haven’t any.”

“You have.”

“They say I haven’t, at Cambridge.”

She was silent for some moments. What strange freak of Fate had thrown them together—he, the very last man on earth she desired to meet. And yet, she had found him such a bright, cheerful companion!

Her eyes were turned to where Mutimer and her friend, Maud Wilson, were strolling along the seafront.

The young fellow at her side was actually the son of Sir Henry Remington! The baronet’s name burned into her brain—it was branded there, as though seared by a red-hot iron.

The amazing revelation staggered her. That man seated so idly in the chair, his legs stretched out, displaying the latest make in ’Varsity socks, was actually the son of Sir Henry!

She could not believe it.

Raife, on his part, was not exactly blind to the fact that mention of his father’s name had unduly surprised her.

“I fancy you know the guv’nor—eh?” he exclaimed, chaffing her. “Do you? Tell me. Perhaps you’ve met him somewhere? He’s at Upper Brook Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there.”

“No, Mr Remington, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your father,” was her rather strained response. “But all the world has heard of him. One sees his picture in the papers very often. I only read yesterday his scathing criticism in the House of Commons on the Navy estimates, and his serious warning regarding the new super-dreadnought—which is building on the Clyde—the vessel which is to be the most powerful battleship afloat.”

“You know more than I do, Miss Tempest,” he laughed. “I never read the guv’nor’s speeches. I heard too much about ships at home, before I went up to Cambridge.”

“I suppose so,” she laughed, and then, as though uneasy and anxious to get away, she added: “Look! Your friend is coming back with Maud. We must go,” and she rose, a tall, graceful figure in neat black.

“No. Don’t go yet,” he urged, still remaining seated. “You surely aren’t in such a great hurry! It’s only just past ten.”

“I have to go back to the hotel,” she declared.

“Have you so very much to do—and is my society so terribly boring?” the young fellow asked, with a mischievous laugh.

“Certainly not,” was her reproachful reply, and, as though against her will, she re-seated herself. “You really ought not to say that,” she added.

“But you seem very anxious to get away. Why?” The girl held her breath, and her great blue eyes were downcast. No. She dare not raise her gaze to his lest he should suspect the terrible truth—he, the son of Sir Henry Remington!

“Well,” she replied at last. “Because I have some letters to write, and—and to tell the truth, I have a dressmaker coming at half-past ten.”

“I suppose in a woman’s life one’s dressmaker is set upon a very high pedestal. All women must bow to the Goddess of Fashion.”

“You are horribly philosophic.”

“My philosophy is induced by your attitude towards me, Miss Tempest,” he declared. “You are a mystery. You were bright and merry until you knew my name, and then—well, then you suddenly curled into your shell. Really, I confess I can’t make you out!”

One more experienced than he would probably have discerned that a great and staggering blow had fallen upon his newly-found little friend. She was at a loss how to act—or what to say.

Her heart was thumping hard within her. What if he should discover the terrible secret which she alone knew! Fearing lest he should grow suspicious, she was all anxiety to get away—to place him and his memory behind her for ever.

Yet, somehow, he had fascinated her, and she sat there quite unable to leave him. Though the sunshine, the life and gaiety about her were brilliant, the whole earth had, for her, grown dark in one single instant. She hardly knew what she did—or what she said.

“I