either shone or revelled in society; but Mrs. Steel would be there, and
he burned to tell her that he had finished his book, and was at last
free to tackle hers; for hers at bottom it would be, the great novel by
which the name of Langholm was to live, and which he was to found by
Rachel Steel's advice upon the case of her namesake Rachel Minchin.

The coincidence of the Christian names had naturally struck the
novelist, but no suspicion of the truth had crossed a mind too skilled
in the construction of dramatic situations to dream of stumbling into
one ready-made. It was thus with a heart as light as any feather that
Langholm made a rapid and unwholesome meal, followed by a deliberate and
painstaking toilet, after which he proceeded at a prudent pace upon his
bicycle to Hornby Manor.

Flags were drooping from their poles, a band clashing fitfully through
the sleepy August air, and carriages still sweeping into the long drive,
when Langholm also made his humble advent. He was a little uneasy and
self-conscious, and annoyed at his own anxiety to impart his tidings to
Mrs. Steel, but for whom he would probably have stayed at home. His eye
sought her eagerly as he set foot upon the lawn, having left his bicycle
at the stables, and carefully removed the clips from his trousers; but
before his vigilance could be rewarded he was despatched by his hostess
to the tea-tent, in charge of a very young lady, detached for the nonce
from the wing of a gaunt old gentleman with side whiskers and lantern
jaws.

Fresh from his fagging task, Langholm did not know what on earth to say
to the pretty schoolgirl, whose own shyness reacted on herself; but he
was doing his best, and atoning in attentiveness for his shortcomings as
a companion, when in the tent he had to apologize to a lady in blue, who
turned out to be Rachel herself, with Hugh Woodgate at her side.

"Oh, no, we live in London," the young girl was saying; "only I go to
the same school as Ida Uniacke, and I am staying here on a visit."

"I've finished it," whispered Langholm to Rachel, "this very afternoon;
and now I'm ready for yours! I see," he added, dropping back into the
attitude of respectful interest in the young girl; "only on a visit; and
who was the old gentleman from whom I tore you away?"

The child laughed merrily.

"That was my father," she said; "but he is only here on his way to
Leeds."

"You mustn't call it my book," remonstrated Rachel, while Woodgate