en the effect
had she done so? How would he have taken it? Could she have pierced that
melancholy ironical armour that always kept the real man from her?

Meanwhile she was now back again in the old, old world; tea was brought,
the footman and butler moved softly about the room. Aunt Adela said a
little, Uncle Richard said a little ... the lid was down upon the world.

Meanwhile, impossible to imagine that only a quarter of an hour ago
there had been that gay confusion in Bond Street, impossible to believe
Mrs. Bronson in her carriage anything but common and vulgar, impossible
to prefer that dazzling sun to this cloistered quiet.

A wonderful lacquered clock ticked the minutes away. "I'm in a cage--I'm
in a cage--and I want to get out," someone in Rachel Beaminster was
crying, and someone else replied, "Thank God that you are allowed to be
in such a cage at all. There's no other cage so splendid."

Her primrose gown was forgotten; when Uncle Richard asked her questions
she answered "Yes," or "No." Her old terrors had returned.

Upon the three of them, sitting thus, Roddy Seddon was announced. Roddy
had assaulted and conquered Lord Richard in as masterly a fashion as he
had subdued the Duchess and Lady Adela. He had done it simply by
presenting so boisterous and honest an allegiance to the Beaminster
standard. Lord Richard's irony had been useless against Roddy's
ingenuous appeal. Moreover, there was the Duchess's advocacy--young
Seddon was the hope of the party.

Roddy brought to view no evidence of last night's energies; he was as
fresh, as highly coloured, as browned and bronzed and clear as any
pastoral shepherd, his skin was so finely coloured that clothes always
seemed, with him, a pity. Lord Richard's melancholy cynicism had poor
chance against such vigour.

His eyes, as they fastened upon Rachel, brightened. She gave that dim
room such fresh pleasure, sitting there in her primrose frock with her
serious eyes and long hands. No, she was not beautiful; he knew that his
last night's impression had been the true one; but she was unusual, she
would make, he was sure, a most unusual companion. "You wouldn't think
it," May Eversley had said, "but there's any amount of fun in
Rachel--you'll find it when you know her."

He was not sure but that he saw it now, lurking in her eyes, her mouth,
as she sat there, so gravely, opposite to her uncle and aunt.

"How d'ye do, Lady Adela? How d'ye do, Miss Beaminster? How a