As Celia undressed slowly, going over the scene that had taken place in the hall below, recalling the changes in the Marquess's expressive face, his strange manner, with its suggestion of anger and impatience, she sought in vain for an explanation. Had he actually been annoyed and irritated by her admission that she had noticed a resemblance in the portrait of his dead brother to someone whom she had met? He had said, emphatically, that it was only a fancied resemblance, and she accepted his decision. It certainly could be only a freak of imagination on her part, seeing that the Marquess's brother had not married—indeed, it was ridiculous to suppose that there was any connection between the noble family of the Sutcombes and the unknown man in the poverty-stricken room at Brown's Buildings. Woman-like, her mind dwelt more on him than on the Marquess's impatience and annoyance. There was something strange, mysterious, in the fact that, not only was she haunted by the memory of the young man, but that here, at Thexford Hall, she should fancy a portrait of one of the family resembled him.

It did not need much to recall him to her mind; for it may be said that in no idle moment of hers was her mind free of him. Now she asked herself, for the hundredth time, not only what had become of him, but what was her duty to him. She had not tried to find him, had not endeavoured to communicate with him. At the moment it occurred to her that she might have inserted a carefully-guarded advertisement in the Personal column of one or more of the newspapers, and she felt ashamed that the thought had not struck her before. She almost, but not quite, decided to insert such an advertisement at once; but, as she pondered, she questioned the wisdom of such an action. Her mind swung, like a pendulum, from one side to the other, and at last she fell asleep, still undecided, but still thinking of him.

The next morning she went out with Roddy for her usual before-breakfast run. It seemed that the Marquess also was an early riser; for she saw his figure, pacing one of the walks, his eyes fixed on the ground. She was going in his direction, and Roddy, catching sight of him, bounded towards him. The Marquess saw her, raised his hat, and turned. It seemed to Celia that he wished to avoid her, and she went on her way—the dog returning to her—and re-entered the house. She did not know whether to expect a visit in the library from the Marquess; and every now and then, when she heard his footstep or his voice, she paused in her work with something like apprehension. But he did not come. In the afternoon he went out in the motor, and presently Mrs. Dexter came into the library.

"The Marquess tells me he saw you last night, my dear," she said. "I hope you liked him."

"Yes," said Celia; "he was very kind."

"Oh, his lordship is kindness itself," said Mrs. Dexter; "and he seems quite interested in you; he is anxious that you should not overwork yourself, and he told me that I was to look after you and see that you went out and took plenty of exercise every day. He's like that; no one could be more kind and considerate to those in his service. And now, my dear, it's a beautiful afternoon and you must go for a run, or I shall get into trouble with his lordship."

"Anything rather than that," said Celia, with a laugh. "Indeed, I'm just going out. Won't you come, too, Mrs. Dexter?"

"Oh, my dear, it's quite impossible," said the housekeeper, "Lord and Lady Heyton are coming this afternoon.... No, you can't help me, thank you very much; everything is ready. I've given her ladyship the best south room, and I hope she will be pleased. I hear that she is a very beautiful young lady. She's a clergyman's daughter, and it was a love-match. It is a good thing that Lord Heyton is married and settled; a good thing for everybody," she added, with, perhaps, unintentional significance.

Remembering her promise to Lady Gridborough, Celia decided to go to see Susie; and, with Roddy scampering about her, she walked briskly in the direction of the cottage. As Celia came up to it, Susie was at the gate with the child in her arms, and the pale-faced girl-mother turned as if to avoid her; but Celia, with shyness in her soft, clear voice, said:

"Oh, mayn't I see the baby? Mayn't I come in?"

"Yes; you may come in, if you wish, if you want to, miss," said Susie, in her low voice, and after a moment's hesitation.

Celia followed her into the little sitting-room. It was a tiny place, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. Susie placed a chair for the visitor, and stood, with her baby pressed close to her, her eyes downcast. Her girlish face, pretty, notwithstanding the lines and hollows graved by sorrow, was like a mask in its impassivity. It was as if she were saying, "You have come, but I did not ask you to do so; I do not want you. I have all I want here, lying on my bosom."

"Let me have him for a moment," begged Celia, who, young as she was, comprehended the girl's feelings. "How sweet he looks!" she exclaimed, as she took the child and kissed it.

The mother's face twitched as she noted the kiss, and her eyes softened a little.

"He is very good," she said, as if she were speaking to herself rather than to Celia. "He is never any trouble; he is very healthy."

"He looks like a strong little cherub," said Celia, touching, with a forefinger as light as a feather, the dimple on the child's chin; "and, of course, he isn't any trouble. And you wouldn't think he was, if he were, would you? What is his name?"

Susie turned away to set a vase straight.

"He hasn't any name," she said, not suddenly, but in a dull, toneless voice. "He hasn't been christened yet."

"Oh, but you must have him christened," said Celia, speaking lightly, to conceal the embarrassment of the subject. "Haven't you decided on a name for him yet?"

Susie shook her head. "What does it matter?" she asked, in a whisper.

Celia fought the growing embarrassment womanfully.

"Oh, I think it matters a great deal," she responded, in the same light tone. "If I had a beautiful boy like this, I should like him to have a nice name—a manly name. But, of course, you've thought of one?"

Susie shook her head again.

"No? Will you think me very—well, cheeky—if I suggest some? Now, let me see! He is fair, isn't he? Some names are appropriate to fair men, while others are more suitable to dark ones, don't you think so?"

She laughed; but there was no smile in Susie's eyes, as she turned and looked, moodily, at the baby, one of whose chubby hands was clasping Celia's finger.

"Let's think of some names," said Celia. "James! I don't like that, do you? Richard; no, that's a dark name. Percy; how would that do?"

It was almost impossible for the pale face to grow paler, and yet, for a moment, as the blue eyes fixed themselves on Celia, Susie's pallor increased. Her arms went out as if she were about to take the child; but Celia looking up, smiled beseechingly.

"Oh, let me have him a little longer," she pleaded. "You have him all the time, you know. Let me see, what was the last name—Percy! Do you like it?"

With an effort, Susie said, slowly, and in almost a whisper:

"My—my father's name was Gerald:—will—will that do?"

"Oh, the very thing!" cried Celia, earnestly. "Gerald. Of course, you will call him after his grandfather. Do decide on that, Mrs.—Morton," she added, with a sudden nervousness.

"I'll call him Gerald, if you like," Susie said, phlegmatically. "Her ladyship was saying that he ought to be christened."

"Of course," said Celia; "and I'd like to be his godmother, if you'll let me?"

Susie swung round, her lips parted, her brows bent, and her eyes fixed on Celia's upturned face.

"You!" she said, as if she were panting. "You'll be a godmother to—him? And you know what he is—what I am? Her ladyship has told you?"

"Yes," said Celia, in a low voice.

"And you come here to me: you offer to—to do this! Don't you know that I was driven from my place, the place in which I was born, that every woman I've met, excepting her ladyship, would like to throw a stone at me? Why are you different from the others?"

"I don't know," said Celia, simply. "Perhaps it's because Lady Gridborough told me the whole story. But I'm—you see, I'm young, like yourself; and though I've mixed in the world, perhaps I haven't learnt to feel hardly as some of the folks you speak of do. I was going to say that I pity you, Susie; but I won't say that. I like you, I like to see you when you're looking at the child."

Susie turned away, her bosom heaving; there were no tears in her eyes, she had already wept them dry.

"And you mustn't look at me as if I were a stranger, as if I had come to see you out of impertinent curiosity only; I want to come to see you very often. I'm in love with Gerald—it is to be Gerald, isn't it?—already. And it will be such a pleasure to me to run in and see him as often as I can; indeed, I must look after him; I shall be his second mother, you see; and between us, we'll train him up in the way he should go, and make a good man of him."

She was smiling now; but there were tears in her eyes, though Susie's were still dry.

"I can't resist you," said Susie, at last. "I know it's wrong that you should be mixed up with one like me. Your friends——"

"Haven't any friends," said Celia, lightly. "I mean, friends that would interfere with me; and if I had, I should not let them do so. I'm alone in the world, like yourself, Susie; and I'm my own mistress. Come, say 'Yes.'"

"I must. It's not in me to resist you, miss," said Susie, with a little gesture of yielding. "But, mind me! the people hereabouts, the grand folk up at the Hall, will take offence——"

"Let them!" said Celia. "But I don't think they will. They are all very kind, even the Marquess."

Susie looked up swiftly.

"Is—is he here, at the Hall?" she asked.

"Yes," said Celia. "He came last night. I saw him; he is very kind, though a very sad, melancholy man. You shall have the baby now. It's cruel of me to have kept him so long. But I must hurry back; for I have so much work to do. I shall come again as soon as I can; and I'll speak to Lady Gridborough about the christening, and arrange everything."

Susie went out to the gate with her, and was saying the last good-bye, when the stillness was broken by the humming of a motor-car. In a cloud of dust, an automobile came up the road; it was upon them almost in an instant.

"That's the big car from the Hall," said Celia. "Why, it must have come from the station, and that must be——"

As she spoke the car came abreast of them. In it were seated a fair, good-looking man, with prominent eyes and loose lips, and beside him an extremely pretty woman, clad daintily in a fashionable and expensive travelling costume.

"——Yes, that must be Lord and Lady Heyton," finished Celia; and her attention was so engrossed by the occupants of the car that she did not see the sudden pallor which had fallen on the face of the girl beside her, nor the swift gesture with which she drew the shawl over the child's face and pressed it to her bosom, as if to hide it. She uttered no cry, but a look of something like terror transformed her face; and, with a quick movement, she turned and fled into the cottage. Celia opened the garden gate and went on her way, half-suffocated by the dust of the rapidly disappearing car.

As Celia entered the Hall, she was met by the odour of an Egyptian cigarette. There was something unpleasantly pungent about it, and, coming out of the fresh air, she, unconsciously, resented the too obtrusive perfume; it recalled to her the atmosphere of a cheap Soho restaurant, and shady foreigners with shifty glances. Such an atmosphere was singularly inappropriate in that great hall, with its air of refinement and dignity. She was making her way to the stairs, when the man she had seen in the car came out of one of the rooms. The objectionable cigarette was between his lips, his hands were thrust in his pockets, there was a kind of swagger in his walk. He looked like a gentleman, but one of the wrong kind, the sort of man one meets in the lowest stratum of the Fast Set. Celia noted all this, without appearing to look at him; it is a way women have, that swift, sideways glance under their lashes, the glance that takes in so much while seeming quite casual and uninterested.

Lord Heyton stared at her, curiously and boldly; her youth and her beauty brought a smile to his face, the smile which is very near to an insult, and he removed his cigarette and opened his lips, as if to speak to her. But, as if unconscious of his presence, Celia went up the stairs quickly and looking straight before her. She had seen the smile, and knew, without looking back, that he was standing in the hall and staring up at her.

Instinctively, she felt that Lord Heyton was a man to be avoided.