Mr. Vincent looked at Margaret two or three times as they drove down to Chelsea Embankment. A village dressmaker had made her frock, but it set well on her slim young figure, and the lace at her neck was soft and real; it belonged to her mother, who knew nothing of its value; her hat was perfectly simple, a peasant, or a woman of fashion might have worn it, and it seemed to him that Margaret would fall quite naturally into place with either. Then he thought of his wife at the farm; she had lived so simple a life among the growths of the earth and the changes of the sky that she was wholly untainted by the vulgarities of the world, and such as she was herself she had made her daughter.

The hansom stopped before a new-looking red-brick house.

"George Stringer would say it ought to be blown up with gunpowder," Mr. Vincent remarked, and Margaret, turning to give some trivial answer, saw that he was white and nervous.

The door was opened by a man servant. The hall was panelled; there were rugs and pictures and palms and old china about, and her heart beat quicker, for all this was part of the London show. The drawing-room was part of it, too, with its couches and screens, its pictures and Venetian glass and countless things of a sort that had no place at Woodside Farm. It was all still and dim, too, almost mysterious, and scented with early spring flowers put about in masses, or so it seemed to Margaret.

Some curtains separated a further room; they were drawn together, and against them, clutching them with one hand, as if she were waiting and half afraid, a woman stood. She was tall, and about forty-three. Her figure was still slight; her black dress trailed on the floor, and made her look graceful; the white cuffs at her wrist were turned back, and called attention to the small white hands below them. She had a quantity of dark hair, smoothly plaited, and pinned closely to the back of her head. Her eyes were a deep gray, long lashed, and curiously full of expression, that apparently she was not able to control. They seemed to belong to an inward being who looked on independently at things, and frequently thought and felt differently from the one that clothed it and tried to pass itself off as a real personality. She had never been pretty; but her face arrested attention. The lines on it suggested suffering; there was humor about the mouth, and tenderness in the deep tone of her voice. For a time and for some people she had a curious fascination; she knew it, and liked to watch its effect. Her head was small, and she carried it well, and the whiteness of the little ruffle round her throat gave it a setting and made it picturesque. She looked across quickly at Mr. Vincent. Then, as if she had gathered courage, she held out her hands and went forward.

"Gerald!" she exclaimed. Her voice appeared to be thickened by emotion. She stopped before him and let her hands drop.

He took them in his. "How do you do, Hilda?" he said, prosaically enough. "It is a long time since we met."

She raised her eyes; they were grave and pathetic, but somewhere at the back of them there was a glint of curiosity. She knew that he saw it, and tried to convince him that he was mistaken.

"More than twenty years," she answered. "I never expected to see you again."

"And now I have brought this tall girl to see you." He put his hand on his daughter's shoulder.

Mrs. Lakeman looked up curiously, almost ruefully. With something like a sob she whispered, "It's Margaret, isn't it?" and took her in her arms and kissed her. "I knew your father before your mother did, and I have loved him all my life," she said, and looked at the girl's face intently for a moment; then, as if she had had enough of that phase, she asked with a sudden touch of cynicism, "Did he ever talk to you about me—but I don't suppose he did?"

"I was never a very talkative person," Mr. Vincent said, grimly. She turned to him with a happy, humorous smile. She seemed to have swept all emotion from her; she had become animated and even lively.

"No, you never were. You were always as silent and as wise as a dear owl. I have a child, too," she went on. "You must see her—my Lena. She is all I have in the world—a splendid girl and a wonderful companion."

"Where is she?" Mr. Vincent asked.

"She is in there," nodding towards the curtains, "in her own sitting-room. You shall go to her, dear," she said, quickly turning to Margaret. "She knows all about you, and is longing to see you. Tom Carringford is there, too—he is always there," she added, significantly. "You remember old Tom Carringford, Gerald? This is his boy—awfully nice boy; I am never tired of him." She was gay by this time, and it was obvious that good spirits were natural to her. "I'll tell you who is with them," she went on. "Dawson Farley—I dare say Margaret would like to see him. He is a genius in my opinion—the only man on the stage fit to play a romantic part—and Louise Hunstan, the American actress, you know. She is playing just now in 'The School for Scandal' at the Shaftesbury—great fun to hear her do Lady Teazle with a little twang in her voice; it is an awfully pretty twang, though. We are devoted to the theatre, Lena and I." She appeared to be hurrying as much information as possible into her words, as if she wanted to give her listeners an impression of her life.

"We are going to the play to-night," Mr. Vincent said, but Mrs. Lakeman hardly heard him. Other lives only interested her so far as they affected her own. If the Vincents had been going with her she would have taken any trouble, shown any amount of excitement; but as it was, why it was nothing to her.

"You shall go to them," she said decisively to Margaret, evidently carrying on her own train of thought. She went towards the curtains as if to pull them aside. "Tell them we are coming in ten minutes, dear."

"Oh, but I don't know them," Margaret answered, appalled at being told to rush in among strangers.

"Of course you don't," Mrs. Lakeman said, in a sympathetic voice. "I'll take you. No, no, Gerald," as Mr. Vincent made a step to follow them; "we must have a little talk to ourselves after all these years."

She led Margaret into a second drawing-room, and beyond it into a still smaller room. There were pictures, and flowers again—quantities of flowers, the air was heavy with their scent. Silk draperies shaded the light that struggled through the small-paned windows, and bits of color and silver gleamed everywhere. It was like entering a dream, and dim figures seemed to rise from it—an indefinite number of them, it seemed to Margaret, though she soon made out that there were only four. She felt so strange as she stood hesitating just inside the room, like a little wayfarer, who knew only of green fields and a farm-house, straying into an enchanted world, for it was odd how the remembrance of her home never left her through all those first hours in London, and in her thoughts she sent it constant messages.

"Lena, my darling, this is Margaret Vincent. Be kind to her," Mrs. Lakeman said, in a low, thrilling voice. "You must love her, for I used to love her father—I do now." She turned to a young man who had come towards them. "Tom, your father knew this girl's father, too. I am coming back with him in a few minutes to tea. This is Tom Carringford, dear," she said to Margaret. Then, as if she had done enough, she went back with a look of amusement in her eyes and a gay little smile on her lips. "I have got rid of the girl," she thought. "I wonder what that old idiot will have to say for himself now she is out of the way."

Tom Carringford reassured Margaret in a moment. "How do you do?" he said, and shook her hand. "Don't be afraid of us; it's all right. My governor often spoke of yours, and I have always hoped I should see him some day."

Before she could answer, there stole towards her a girl with a thin, almost haggard, face and two sleepy, dark eyes that looked as if they might burn with every sort of passion. "I have been waiting for you," she said. "Mother has told me about your father. It was splendid of him to bring you." She spoke in a low tone, and, drawing Margaret to a seat near the window, looked at her with an anxious expression in her great eyes, as if she had been worn out with watching for her. "Stay, you don't know Mr. Dawson Farley yet, do you?" She turned towards a man who had risen to make room for them.

"Mrs. Lakeman told us about him just now."

"I'm not as famous as Miss Lakeman thinks." The clear pronunciation caught Margaret's ear, and she looked at him. He was clean-shaven, with a determined mouth and short, crisp hair. There was something hard and even cruel in the face, but there was fascination in it, too—there was fascination in all these new people; the magnetism of knowledge of the world perhaps, the world that had only burst upon her to-day.

"Oh, but I know nothing," she said, shyly. "I came from Chidhurst this morning—for the first time." Lena made a little sympathetic sound, and put her arms out as if to protect her.

"Do you mean that you have never been in London before?" Mr. Farley asked.

"No, never."

"What a wonderful thing!" The words came from a corner near the fireplace. Margaret was getting used to the dimness now, and could see through it. A woman moved towards her; she was not very young, but she was fair and graceful.

"It is Louise Hunstan, dear," Lena said. For some reason she did not know, Margaret recoiled from this girl, who had only known her five minutes, yet called her dear and was affectionate in her manner.

"You must let me look at you," Miss Hunstan said. The twang of which Mrs. Lakeman had spoken was faintly evident, but it gave her words a charm that made it impossible not to listen to them. "Now tell me, do you love it or hate it, or are you just bewildered with this great London?" She seemed to understand the stranger-mood better than the others.

"I think I am bewildered," Margaret answered. "Everything is so strange."

"Of course it is," Tom Carringford said, "and we stare at her as if she were a curiosity. What brutes we are! Never mind, Miss Vincent," he laughed, "we mean well, so you might tell us your adventures before Mrs. Lakeman returns."

He gave her courage again, and a sense of safety. She laughed back a little as she answered. "Adventures—do people have adventures in London? It sounds like Dick Whittington."

"Just like Dick Whittington," Lena answered. "You ought to carry a cat under your arm and marry a fairy prince. Isn't she beautiful?" she whispered to Dawson Farley.

The color rushed to Margaret's face. "Oh, please don't," she said. "I'm not a bit beautiful."

"Where have you come from, Miss Vincent?" the actor asked, as if he had not heard.

"From Woodside Farm at Chidhurst."

"I can tell you all about her," Lena said. "My mother was once engaged to her father, Gerald Vincent—" Margaret turned quickly as if to stop her. But she took no notice and went on. "He was a clergyman then, but he changed his opinions, left the Church, and wrote some articles that made a sensation. All his relations were furious, and mother couldn't marry him. A little cry came from Margaret.

"Oh! How could she tell you?" she exclaimed.

"You oughtn't to have told us, anyhow," Tom Carringford said, turning upon Lena: he was almost distressed. "It's an awful shame!"

"Miss Lakeman didn't mean any harm—she's not like any one else," Miss Hunstan said to Margaret, with a look in her eyes that counted for more than her words.

"It's history, dear—everybody knows it," Lena cooed, soothingly. "Besides, I always tell everything I know, about myself and every one else. It's much the best way; then one doesn't get any shocks in life, and isn't told any secrets."

"There's something in that," Mr. Farley agreed, and then he turned to Margaret; "I've read some of Mr. Vincent's articles. They are beyond my depth, but I recognized their brilliance."

"You see?" Lena said, with a shrug that implied it was impossible to cover up the history of a famous person. Mr. Farley looked at her impatiently and then at the stranger-girl: it was odd how different from themselves they all felt her to be.

"Are you going to any theatres?" he asked, trying to change the conversation. "There are all sorts of things to see in London."

"We are going to 'King John' to-night."

"Mr. Shakespeare and rather slow," Tom Carringford put in, gayly.

"Ah, that's what you young men think," Mr. Farley said—he himself was under forty.

"Tell me what you do in the country, little Margaret?" Lena asked, with the air of a culprit who loved her, and ignoring the fact that Margaret was a good five foot seven. "Do you bask in the sun all the summer, and hide beneath the snow all the winter, or do you behave like ordinary mortals?"

"We behave like ordinary mortals. Father and I read a great many books—" she began.

"And what does your mother do?"

"Mother and Hannah are generally busy with the farm and the house."

"Who is Hannah?"

"My half-sister. She is a good deal older than I am."

"Can't you see it all?" Lena said, turning to the others. "I can, as clearly as possible. Mrs. Vincent and Hannah look after the farm, and Margaret and her father sit together and read books. The farm carts rumble by, dogs bark, and chickens wander about; there are cows in the fields, honeysuckle in the hedges, and bees in the hives at the end of the garden. In my thoughts I can see them all jumbled up together, and hear the notes of the thrushes in the trees."

"Rubbish!" said Tom Carringford. "Your talk is a little too picturesque, you know. It always is. I can't think how you manage to invent it so quickly."

"Are you eager, now that you have come into the world?" Lena asked, taking no notice of Tom's crushing remark. "Do you long to run all over it, and feel as if you could eat it up?"

"Rubbish!" said Tom again. "She doesn't feel anything of the sort."

"Everybody does who is really alive."

"All right," he said, imperturbably. "I am a babe unborn, or a mummy." Then he turned to Margaret: "I have to go now; but I wish I had seen your father, Miss Vincent. Where are you staying?"

"At the Langham Hotel—it's in Regent Street."

"Oh yes, we know; we have been in London for some time, you see," Mr. Farley laughed. He liked this girl; she was fresh and unspoiled, he thought. He had a curious hatred of Lena Lakeman, which had just been intensified by her treatment of Margaret. There were times when he felt that he should like to strangle her, just for the good of the community. He hated her wriggling movements, her low tones, her sugary manner, and the outrageous things she said and did with an air of unconsciousness.

Tom Carringford stood talking with Miss Hunstan before he departed. They appeared to be making some arrangement together, for, as he wished her good-bye he said, "All right, then; I will if I can. Anyhow, may I look in at tea-time to-morrow?"

"You may look in at any time you like," Miss Hunstan said, and then she explained to Margaret: "Mr. Carringford and I are old friends, and always have a great deal to say to each other." She got up when he had gone. "I'm going, too," she said; "but I wish I could stay longer." She held out her hand to Margaret. "I am a stranger to you," she said; "but I should like you to know that I am an American woman, and an actress—who was once a stranger, too, here in London. I hope to stay for some time, and if you come up again and would come and see me, either at the theatre or at my home, I'd be more glad than I can say, for you remind me of a girl I knew in Philadelphia, and she was the sweetest thing on earth."

"I should like it so very much," Margaret said, gratefully.

"Write to me if you can, for I wouldn't like to miss you. Anyway, just remember that I live in Great College Street, Westminster; and you will easily find it, for it's quite near the Abbey. No, thank you, Miss Lakeman, I won't stay for tea. Good-bye."

"I'll walk with you, Louise," Mr. Farley said. "Miss Hunstan is an old friend of mine, too," he told Margaret. "We knew each other in America."

Then, when they were alone, Lena went up to Margaret. "I am glad they are gone," she said. "Now we shall understand each other so much better, and you must tell me"—she stopped to ring the bell—"all about yourself. We ought to know each other, when we remember—" She had been speaking in an intense tone, but the servant entered, and in quite an ordinary one she asked for tea to be brought at once; then turned and immediately resumed the intensity—"when we remember that your father and my mother were lovers."

"Oh, don't say that," Margaret answered, almost vehemently, but with a sweetness of which her listener was uneasily sensible. "It was all finished and done with before we were born. I couldn't bear you to speak of it, nor of my father's opinions, as you did when the others were here; and I can't now, for we have only known each other an hour. There are some things we should only say to those who are nearest to us, and very seldom even then."

Lena wriggled a little closer. "You beautiful thing! Imagine your knowing that. But don't you know that some people are never strangers? And when mother brought you in just now I felt that I had known you for years. You must love mother and me, Margaret. People always do; we understand so well."

"You don't—you can't—or you would not have spoken as you did before those strangers."

"Didn't you hear what I said? I am one of those people who think that everything we do and feel should be spread out under the light of heaven. There should be no dark corners or secret places in our lives."

"But why did you say that my father and your mother were lovers once? I didn't want to know that he had ever cared for any one but my own dear mother." Margaret was indignant still.

Lena looked at her with a bewildered smile. "How sweet you are, and how unspoiled by the world," she said. "I wish I could come and live on your farm, dear. Tell me about your mother."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I shouldn't like to talk about her to any one I don't know."

"Do you love her very much?"

"I love her with all my heart. That is why—"

"Tell me what she is like."

"I can't. I don't want to talk about her to you."

"Do you feel that I am not worthy?" Lena asked, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

"I don't think you worthy or unworthy," Margaret answered; "but I don't want to talk about her to you."

"You are very curious, little Margaret. I am glad we have met." Lena leaned forward, as if she were trying to dive into the innermost depths of the soul before her, but Margaret felt half afraid of her, as of something uncanny.

"I don't think I am glad," she whispered, and shuddered.

"But you mustn't struggle against me, dear—you can't," she whispered back; "because I understand people—mother and I do. The tea is ready; I will go and bring your father here." She rose and slipped softly through the curtains.