Dick Faversham saw at a glance that Beatrice Stanmore had ceased being a child. She was barely twenty. She was girlish in appearance, and her grandfather seemed to still regard her as a child. But her childhood had gone, and her womanhood had come. Rather tall, and with a lissom form, she had all a girl's movements, all a girl's sweetness, but the flash of her eyes, the compression of her lips, the tones of her voice, all told that she had left her childhood behind. But the first blush of her womanhood still remained. She retained her child's naturalness and winsomeness, even while she looked at the world through the eyes of a woman.

Dick was struck by her beauty too. When years before she had rushed into the library at Wendover, almost breathless in her excitement, she had something of the angularity, almost awkwardness, of half-development. That had all gone. Every movement was graceful, natural. Perfect health, health of body, health of mind had stamped itself upon her. She had no suggestion of the cigarette-smoking, slang-talking miss who boasts of her freedom from old-time conventions. You could not think of Beatrice Stanmore sitting with men, smoking, sipping liqueurs, and laughing at their jokes. She retained the virginal simplicity of childlikeness. All the same she was a woman. But not a woman old beyond her years. Not a woman who makes men give up their thoughts of the sacredness of womanhood.

No one could any more think of Beatrice Stanmore being advanced, or "fast," than one could think of a rosebud just opening its petals to the sun being "fast."

She had none of the ripe beauty of Lady Blanche Huntingford, much less the bold splendour of Olga Petrovic. She was too much the child of nature for that. She was too sensitive, too maidenly in her thoughts and actions. And yet she was a woman, with all a woman's charm.

Here lay her power. She was neither insipid nor a prude. She dared to think for herself, she loved beautiful dresses, she enjoyed pleasure and gaiety; but all without losing the essential quality of womanhood—purity and modesty. She reminded one of Russell Lowell's lines:

That was why no man, however blasÉ, however cynical about women, could ever associate her with anything loud or vulgar. She was not neurotic; her healthy mind revolted against prurient suggestion either in conversation or in novels. She was not the kind of girl who ogled men, or practised unwomanly arts to attract their attention. No man, however bold, would dream of taking liberties with her. But she was as gay as a lark, her laughter was infectious, the flash of her eyes suggested all kinds of innocent mischief and fun. She could hold her own at golf, was one of the best tennis players in the district, and could ride with gracefulness and fearlessness.

Does someone say I am describing an impossible prodigy? No, I am trying to describe a sweet, healthy, natural girl. I am trying to tell of her as she appeared to me when I saw her first, a woman such as I believe God intended all women to be, womanly, pure, modest.

She was fair to look on too; fair with health and youth and purity. A girl with laughing eyes, light brown hair, inclined to curl. A sweet face she had, a face which glowed with health, and was unspoilt by cosmetics. A tender, sensitive mouth, but which told of character, of resolution and daring. A chin firm and determined, and yet delicate in outline. This was Beatrice Stanmore, who, reared among the sweet Surrey hills and valleys, was unsmirched by the world's traffic, and who recoiled from the pollution of life which she knew existed. A girl modern in many respects, but not too modern to love old-fashioned courtesies, not too modern to keep holy the Sabbath Day, and love God with simple faith. A religious girl, who never paraded religion, and whose religion never made her monkish and unlovely, but was the joy and inspiration of her life.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I've often wondered why you never came to Wendover."

"In a way it was very hard to keep away," was Dick's reply. "On the other hand, I had a kind of dread of seeing it again. You see, I had learnt to love it."

"I don't wonder. It's the dearest old house in the world. I should have gone mad, I think, if I'd been in your place. It was just splendid of you to take your reverse so bravely."

"I had only one course before me, hadn't I?"

"Hadn't you? I've often wondered." She gave him a quick, searching glance as she spoke. "Are you staying here long?"

"No, only a few hours. I return to London this afternoon. I came down to-day just on impulse. I had no reason for coming."

"Hadn't you? I'm glad you came."

"So am I."

There was a strange intensity in his tones, but he did not know why he spoke with so much feeling.

"Of course Granddad and I have often talked of you," she went on. "Do you know when we called on you that day in London, I was disappointed in you. I don't know why. You had altered so much. You did not seem at all like you were when we saw you down here. I told Granddad so. But I'm so glad you are Member of Parliament for Eastroyd, and so glad you've called. There, the lunch is ready. Please remember, Mr. Faversham, that I'm housekeeper, and am responsible for lunch. If you don't like it, I shall be offended."

She spoke with all the freedom and frankness of a child, but Dick was not slow to recognise the fact that the child who had come to Wendover when Romanoff was weaving a web of temptation around him, had become a woman who could no longer be treated as a child.

"Are you hungry, Sir George?" she went on, turning to her other visitor. "Do you know, Mr. Faversham, that these two men have neglected me shamefully? They have been so interested in rubbings of ancient inscriptions, and writings on the tombs of Egyptian kings, that they've forgotten that I've had to cudgel my poor little brains about what they should eat. Housekeeping's no easy matter in these days."

"That's not fair," replied Sir George. "It was Mr. Stanmore here, who was so interested that he forgot all about meal-times."

The soldier was so earnest that he angered Dick. "Why couldn't the fool take what she said in the spirit of raillery?" he asked himself.

"Adam over again," laughed Beatrice. "'The woman tempted me and I did eat.' It's always somebody else's fault. Now then, Granddad, serve the fish."

It was a merry little party that sat down to lunch, even although Dick did not seem inclined for much talk. Old Hugh Stanmore was in great good-humour, while Beatrice had all the high spirits of a happy, healthy girl.

"You must stay a few hours now you are here, Mr. Faversham," urged the old man presently. "There's not the slightest reason why you should go back to town by that four something train. It's true, Sir George and I are going over to Pitlock Rectory for a couple of hours, but we shall be back for tea, and you and Beatrice can get on all right while we are away."

Sir George did not look at all delighted at the suggestion, but Beatrice was warm in her support of it.

"You really must, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I shall be alone all the afternoon otherwise, for really I can't bear the idea of listening to Mr. Stanhope, the Rector of Pitlock, prose about mummies and fossils and inscriptions."

"You know I offered to stay here," pleaded Sir George.

"As though I would have kept you and Granddad away from your fossils," she laughed. "Mr. Stanhope is a great scholar, a great Egyptologist, and a great antiquary, and you said it would be your only chance of seeing him, as you had to go to the War Office to-morrow. So you see, Mr. Faversham, that you'll be doing a real act of charity by staying with me. Besides, there's something I want to talk with you about. There is really."

Sir George did not look at all happy as, after coffee, he took his seat beside old Hugh Stanmore, in the little motor-car, but Dick Faversham's every nerve tingled with pleasure at the thought of spending two or three hours alone with Beatrice. Her transparent frankness and naturalness charmed him, the whole atmosphere of the cottage was so different from that to which for years he had been accustomed.

"Mr. Faversham," she said, when they had gone, "I want you to walk with me to the great house, will you?"

"Certainly," he said, wondering all the time why she wanted to go there.

"You don't mind, do you? I know it must be painful to you, but—but I want you to."

"Of course I will. It's no longer mine—it never was mine, but it attracts me like a magnet."

Five minutes later they were walking up the drive together. Dick was supremely happy, yet not knowing why he was happy. Everything he saw was laden with poignant memories, while the thought of returning to the house cut him like a knife. Yet he longed to go. For some little distance they walked in silence, then she burst out suddenly.

"Mr. Faversham, do you believe in premonitions?"

"Yes."

"So do I. It is that I wanted to talk with you about."

He did not reply, but his mind flashed back to the night when he had sat alone with Count Romanoff, and Beatrice Stanmore had suddenly and without warning rushed into the room.

"Do you believe in angels?" she went on.

"I—I think so."

"I do. Granddad is not sure about it. That is, he isn't sure that they appear. Sir George is altogether sceptical. He pooh-poohs the whole idea. He says there was a mistake about the Angels at Mons. He says it was imagination, and all that sort of thing; but he isn't a bit convincing. But I believe."

"Yes." He spoke almost unconsciously. He had never uttered a word about his own experiences to anyone, and he wondered if he should tell her what he had seen and heard.

"It was a kind of premonition which made me go to see you years ago," she said quietly. "Do you remember?"

"I shall never forget, and I'm very glad."

"Why are you very glad?"

"Because—because I'm sure your coming helped me!"

"How did it help you?"

"It helped me to see, to feel; I—I can't quite explain."

"That man—Count Romanoff—is evil," and she shuddered as she spoke.

"Why do you say so?"

"I felt it. I feel it now. He was your enemy. Have you seen him since?"

"Only once. I was walking through Oxford Circus. I only spoke a few words to him; I have not seen him since."

"Mr. Faversham, did anything important happen that night?"

"Yes, that night—and the next."

"Did that man, Count Romanoff, want you to do something which—which was wrong? Forgive me for asking, won't you? But I have felt ever since that it was so."

"Yes." He said the word slowly, doubtfully. At that moment the old house burst upon his view, and he longed with a great longing to possess it. He felt hard and bitter that a man like Tony Riggleton should first have made it a scene of obscene debauchery and then have left it. It seemed like sacrilege that such a man should be associated with it. At that moment, too, it seemed such a little thing that Romanoff had asked him to do.

"If I had done what he asked me, I might have been the owner of Wendover Park now," he added.

"But how could that be, if that man Riggleton was the true heir?" she asked.

"At that time there seemed—doubt. He made me feel that Riggleton had no right to be there, and if I had promised the Count something, I might have kept it."

"And that something was wrong?"

"Yes, it was wrong. Of course I am speaking to you in absolute confidence," he added. "When you came you made me see things as they really were."

"I was sent," she said simply.

"By whom?"

"I don't know. And do you remember when I came the second time?"

"Yes, I remember. I shall never forget."

"I never felt like it before or since. Something seemed to compel me to hasten to you. I got out the car in a few seconds, and I simply flew to you. I have thought since that you must have been angry, that you must have looked upon me as a mad girl to rush in on you the way I did. But I could not help myself. That evil man, Romanoff, was angry with me too; he would have killed me if he had dared. Do you remember that we talked about angels afterwards?"

"I remember."

"They were all around us. I felt sure of it. I seemed to see them. Afterwards, while I was sorry for you, I felt glad you had left Wendover, glad that you were no longer its owner. I had a kind of impression that while you were losing the world, you were saving your soul."

She spoke with all a child's simplicity, yet with a woman's earnestness. She asked no questions as to what Romanoff had asked him to do in order to keep his wealth; that did not seem to come within her scope of things. Her thought was that Romanoff was evil, and she felt glad that Dick had resisted the evil.

"Do you believe in angels?" she asked again.

"Sometimes," replied Dick. "Do you?"

"I have no doubt about them. I know my mother often came to me."

"How? I don't quite understand. You never saw her—in this world I mean—did you?"

"No. But she has come to me. For years I saw her in dreams. More than once, years ago, when I woke up in the night, I saw her hovering over me."

"That must have been fancy."

"No, it was not." She spoke with calm assurance, and with no suggestion of morbidness or fear. "Why should I not see her?" she went on. "I am her child, and if she had lived she would have cared for me, fended for me, because she loved me. Why should what we call death keep her from doing that still, only in a different way?"

Dick was silent a few seconds. It did not seem at all strange.

"No; there seems no real reason why, always assuming that there are angels, and that they have the power to speak to us. But there is something I would like to ask you. You said just now, 'I know that my mother often came to me.' Has she ceased coming?"

Beatrice Stanmore's eyes seemed filled with a great wonder, but she still spoke in the same calm assured tones.

"I have not seen her for three years," she said; "not since the day after you left Wendover. She told me then that she was going farther away for a time, and would not be able to speak to me, although she would allow no harm to happen to me. Since that time I have never seen her. But I know she loves me still. It may be that I shall not see her again in this life, but sometime, in God's own good time, we shall meet."

"Are you a Spiritualist?" asked Dick, and even as he spoke he felt that he had struck a false note.

She shook her head decidedly. "No, I should hate the thought of using mediums and that sort of thing to talk to my mother. There may be truth in it, or there may not; but to me it seems tawdry, sordid. But I've no doubt about the angels. I think there are angels watching over you. It's a beautiful thought, isn't it?"

"Isn't it rather morbid?" asked Dick.

"Why should it be morbid? Is the thought that God is all around us morbid? Why then should it be morbid to think of the spirits of those He has called home being near to help us, to watch over us?"

"No," replied Dick; "but if there are good angels why may there not be evil ones?"

"I believe there are," replied the girl. "I am very ignorant and simple, but I believe there are. Did not Satan tempt our Lord in the wilderness? And after the temptation was over, did not angels minister to Him?"

"So the New Testament says."

"Do you not believe it to be true?"