at once.
“I should like it,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know how it is, but I seem half-stifled to-day.”
They passed out into the soft, cool night. A nightingale was singing somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden. The air was sweet with the perfume of early summer flowers. Wrayson drew a long, deep breath of content.
“Let us sit down, Colonel,” he said; “I have something to tell you.”
The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat. A few stars were out, but no moon. In the dusky twilight, the shrubs and trees beyond stood out with black and almost startling distinctness against the clear sky.
“You remember the girl—I told you about, whom I found in my flat, and afterwards?” Wrayson asked hoarsely.
The Colonel nodded.
“Certainly! What about her? To tell you the truth, I am afraid I—”
Wrayson stopped him with a quick, fierce exclamation.
“Don’t, Colonel!” he said. “Wait until you have heard what I have to say. I have seen her picture—to-day.”
The Colonel removed his cigar from his mouth.
“Her picture!” he exclaimed. “To- day! Where? My dear fellow, this is very interesting! You know my opinion as to that young—”
Again Wrayson stopped him, this time with an oath.
“In your house, Colonel,” he said. “Your daughter showed it to me—in an album!”
The Colonel sat like a man turned to stone. The hand which held his cigar shook so that the ash fell upon his waistcoat.
“Go on!” he faltered.
“I asked who it was. I was told that it was your daughter! Miss Edith’s step-sister! Forgive me, Colonel! I had to tell you!”
The Colonel seemed to have shrunk in his place. The cigar slipped from his fingers and fell unheeded on to the grass. His mouth trembled and twitched pitifully.
“My—my daughter Louise!” he faltered. “Wrayson, you are not serious!”
“It is God’s truth,” Wrayson answered. “I would stake my soul upon it that the girl—I told you about—was the original of that picture! When I look at your daughter Edith I can see the likeness.”
The Colonel’s head was buried in his hands. His exclamation sounded like a sob.
“My God!” he murmured.
Then there was silence. Only the nightingale went on with his song.
VIII. THE BARONESS INTERVENES
The Baroness trifled with some grapes and looked languidly round the room.
“My dear Louise,” she declared, “it is the truth what every one tells me of your country. You are a dull people. I weary myself here.”
The girl whom she had addressed as Louise shrugged her shoulders.
“So do I, so do all of us,” she answered, a little wearily. “What would you have? One must live somewhere.”
The Baroness sighed, and from a chatelaine hung with elegant trifles selected a gold cigarette case. An attentive waiter rushed for a match and presented it. The Baroness gave a little sigh of content as she leaned back in her chair. She smoked as one to the manner born.
“One must live somewhere, it is true,” she agreed, “but why London? I think that of all great cities it is the most provincial. It lacks what you call the atmosphere. The people are all so polite, and so deadly, deadly dull. How different in Paris or Berlin, even Brussels!”
“Circumstances are a little against us, aren’t they?” Louise remarked. “Our opportunities for making acquaintances are limited.”
The Baroness made a little grimace.
“You, my young friend,” she said, “are of the English—very English. Quite Saxon, in fact. With you there would never be any making of acquaintances! I feel myself in the bonds of a cast-iron chaperonage whenever I move out with you. Why is it, little one? Have you never any desire to amuse yourself?”
“I don’t quite understand you,” her companion answered dryly. “If you mean that I have no desire to encourage promiscuous acquaintances, you are certainly right. I prefer to be dull.”
The Baroness sighed gently.
“Some of my dearest friends,” she murmured, “I have—but there, it is a subject upon which we disagree. We will talk of something else. Shall we go to the theatre to- night?”
“As you will,” Louise answered indifferently. “There isn’t much that we haven’t seen, is there?”
“We will send for a paper and see,” the Baroness said. “We cannot sit and look at one another all the evening. With music one can make dinner last out till nine or even half past—an idea, my Louise!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Cannot we go to a music- hall, the Alhambra, for example? We could take a box and sit back.”
“It is not customary,” Louise declared coldly. “If you really wish it, though, I don’t—I don’t—”
Her speech was broken off in a somewhat extraordinary manner. She was leaning a little forward in her chair, all her listlessness and pallor seemed to have been swept away by a sudden rush of emotion. The colour had flooded her cheeks, her tired eyes were suddenly bright; was it with fear or only surprise? The Baroness wasted no time in asking questions. She raised her lorgnettes and turned round, facing the direction in which Louise was looking. Coming directly towards them from the further end of the restaurant was a young man, whose eyes never swerved from their table. He was pale, somewhat slight, but the lines of his mouth were straight and firm, and there was not lacking in him that air of distinction which the Baroness never failed to recognize. She put down her glasses and looked across at Louise with a smile. She was quite prepared to approve.
The young man stopped at their table and addressed himself directly to Louise. The Baroness frowned as she saw how scanty were the signs of encouragement in her young companion’s face. She leaned a little forward, ready at the first signs of an introduction to make every effort to atone for Louise’s coldness by a most complete amiability. This young man should not be driven away if she could help it!
“I have been hoping, Miss Fitzmaurice,” Wrayson said calmly, “that I might meet you somewhere.”
She shrank a little back for a moment. There flashed across her face a quiver, as though of pain.
“Why do you think,” she asked, “that that is my name?”
“Your father, Colonel Fitzmaurice, is one of my best friends,” he answered gravely. “I was at his house yesterday. I only came
