and smiled pleasantly.

'All the better. I shall set Maud on you to drag you down to
Derbyshire in September,' he said. 'Women never have anything to do in
September. Let me see--you're an actress, aren't you, my dear?'

Margaret laughed. It was positively delightful to feel that he had
never heard of her theatrical career.

'No; I'm a singer,' she said. 'My stage name is Cordova.'

'Oh yes, yes,' answered Lord Creedmore, very vaguely. 'It's the same
thing--you cannot possibly have anything to do in September, can you?'

'We shall see. I hope not, this year.'

'If it's not very indiscreet of me, as an old friend, you know, do you
manage to make a living by the stage?'

'Oh--fair!' Margaret almost laughed again.

Lady Maud returned at this juncture, and Margaret rose to go, feeling
that she had stayed long enough.

'Margery has half promised to come to us in September,' said Lord
Creedmore to his daughter, 'You don't mind if I call you Margery, do
you?' he asked, turning to Margaret. 'I cannot call you Miss Donne
since you really remember the chocolate wafers! You shall have some as
soon as I can go to see you!'

Margaret loved the name she had been called by as a child. Mrs.
Rushmore had severely eschewed diminutives.

'Margery,' repeated Lady Maud thoughtfully. 'I like the name awfully
well. Do you mind calling me Maud? We ought to have known each other
when we were in pinafores!'

In this way it happened that Margaret found herself unexpectedly
on something like intimate terms with her father's friend and the
latter's favourite child less than twenty-four hours after meeting
Lady Maud, and this was how she was asked to their place in the
country for the month of September. But that seemed very far away.

Lady Maud took Margaret home, as she had brought her, without making
her wait more than three minutes for a train, without exposing her to
a draught, and without letting her get wet, all of which would seem
easy enough to an old Londoner, but was marvellous in the eyes of the
young Primadonna, and conveyed to her an idea of freedom that was
quite new to her. She remembered that she used to be proud of her
independence when she first went into Paris from Versailles alone for
her singing lessons; but that trip, contrasted with the one from her
own house to Lord Creedmore's on the Surrey side, was like going out
for an hour's sail in a pleasure-boat on a summer's afternoon compared
with working a sea-goi