vered that
she herself possessed a wonderful talent for romance, and had already
begun the first chapter of a thrilling story.

Nearly half an hour passed before her aunt returned, and in the interval
Miss Austen's knights and dames had retired still farther into the
background, and Miss Anastasia's hero had entirely monopolised the
stage. It was twenty minutes past five when Miss Joliffe, senior,
returned from the Dorcas meeting; "precisely twenty minutes past five,"
as she remarked many times subsequently, with that factitious importance
which the ordinary mind attaches to the exact moment of any epoch-making
event.

"Is the water boiling, my dear?" she asked, sitting down at the kitchen
table. "I should like to have tea to-day before the gentlemen come in,
if you do not mind. The weather is quite oppressive, and the schoolroom
was very close because we only had one window open. Poor Mrs Bulteel
is so subject to take cold from draughts, and I very nearly fell asleep
while she was reading."

"I will get tea at once," Anastasia said; and then added, in a tone of
fine unconcern: "There is a gentleman waiting upstairs to see Mr
Westray."

"My dear," Miss Joliffe exclaimed deprecatingly, "how could you let
anyone in when I was not at home? It is exceedingly dangerous with so
many doubtful characters about. There is Mr Westray's presentation
inkstand, and the flower-picture for which I have been offered so much
money. Valuable paintings are often cut out of their frames; one never
has an idea what thieves may do."

There was the faintest trace of a smile about Anastasia's lips.

"I do not think we need trouble about that, dear Aunt Phemie, because I
am sure he is a gentleman. Here is his card. Look!" She handed Miss
Joliffe the insignificant little piece of white cardboard that held so
momentous a secret, and watched her aunt put on her spectacles to read
it.

Miss Joliffe focussed the card. There were only two words printed on
it, only "Lord Blandamer" in the most unpretending and simple
characters, but their effect was magical. Doubt and suspicion melted
suddenly away, and a look of radiant surprise overspread her
countenance, such as would have become a Constantine at the vision of
the Labarum. She was a thoroughly unworldly woman, thinking little of
the things of this life in general, and keeping her affections on that
which is to come, with the constancy and realisation that is so often
denied to