York," Lord Runton answered. "He's been very decent to
my brother out there, and Archibald wrote and asked me to do all we
could for them. The girl is very handsome. You'll see her at dinner
to-night."

"Here for long?"

"No, unfortunately," Lord Runton answered. "I had very hard work to get
them to come at all. Cicely has written them three or four times, I
think, but they've always had engagements. They're only staying till
Monday, I think. Very quiet, inoffensive sort of chap, Fielding, but the
girl's a ripper! Hullo! Here they are. I'll introduce you."

A groom had thrown open the gate of the field across which they were
looking, and Lady Runton from the box seat of a small mail phaeton waved
her whip. She drove straight across the furrows towards them a little
recklessly, the groom running behind. By her side was a girl with coils
of deep brown hair, and a thick black veil worn after the fashion of the
travelling American.

"Just in time, aren't we?" Lady Runton remarked, as she brought the
horses to a standstill. "Help me down, Jack, and look after Miss
Fielding, Sir George. By the bye, have you two met yet?"

Duncombe bowed--he was bareheaded--and held out his hands.

"I saw Miss Fielding for a moment last night," he said, "or rather I
didn't see her. We were introduced, however. What do you think of our
maligned English weather, Miss Fielding?" he asked.

She raised her veil and looked at him deliberately. He had been prepared
for this meeting, and yet it was with difficulty that he refrained from
a start. The likeness of the photograph (it was even at that moment in
his pocket) was wonderful. She looked a little older, perhaps. There
were shadows in her face of which there were no traces in the picture.
And yet the likeness was wonderful.

"To-day at least is charming," she said. "But then I am quite used to
your climate, you know. I have lived in Europe almost as much as in
America."

She certainly had no trace of any accent. She spoke a little more
slowly, perhaps, than most young Englishwomen, but there was nothing
whatever in her words or in her pronunciation of them to suggest a
transatlantic origin. She stood by his side looking about her with an
air of interest, and Duncombe began to wonder whether after all she was
not more beautiful than the photograph which he had treasured so
jealously. He became conscious of a desire to keep her by his side.

"Is your father shooting, Miss Fielding?"