letter
in question had miscarried. And nothing could make any difference now,
seeing that Beatrice had given her word, and that was a thing that she
always respected. All Beatrice's probity and honour she inherited from
her mother.

"Very foolish, very foolish," Sir Charles muttered benignly. "Girls are
so impulsive. Don't you think that those carnations would be improved by
a little more foliage at the base? They strike me as being a little set
and formal. Now, is not that better?"

As if he had not either care or trouble in the world, Sir Charles added
a few deft touches to the deep crimson blooms. His face was careless and
boyish and open again. From the next room came the swish of silken
skirts and the sound of a high-bred voice asking for somebody.

"Lady Rashborough," Sir Charles cried, "I'll go and receive her. And do
for goodness' sake try to look a little more cheerful. Stay in here and
compose yourself."

Sir Charles went off with an eager step and his most fascinating smile.
Lord Rashborough was the head of his family. He was going to give
Beatrice away to-morrow; indeed, Beatrice would drive to the church from
Rashborough's town house, though the reception was in the _Royal Palace
Hotel_.

Beatrice passed her hand across her face wearily. She stood for a moment
looking into the fire, her thoughts very far away. Gradually the world
and its surroundings came back to her, and she was more or less
conscious that somebody was in the room. As she turned suddenly a tall
figure turned also, and made with hesitation towards the door.

"I am afraid," the stranger said in a soft, pleading voice; "I am afraid
that I have made a mistake."

"If you are looking for anybody," Beatrice suggested, "my father has
these rooms. If you have come to see Sir Charles Darryll, why, I
could----"

It struck Beatrice just for a moment that here was an adventurer after
the silver plate. But a glance at the beautiful, smooth, sorrowful face
beat down the suspicion as quickly as it had risen. The intruder was
unmistakably a lady, she was dressed from head to foot in silver grey,
and had a bonnet to match. In some vague way she reminded Beatrice of a
hospital nurse, and then again of some _grande dame_ in one of the
old-fashioned country houses where the parvenue and the Russo-Semitic
financier is not permitted to enter.

"I took the wrong turn," the stranger said. "I fancy I can reach the
corridor by that door opposite. These