At that moment I had no thought of either right or wrong. I was determined to go straight forward and appeal to a very generous and chivalrous man to help me; I thought he could do it, and I believed that no one else in all the world would. I ran quickly upstairs—what a comfort it was to know that Morris was nowhere in sight, how delightful was the sensation of putting on my own hat and jacket, of tying a scarf round my neck and slipping my hands into my gloves. It was also perfectly delicious not to be obliged to look even once into the glass—little did I care at that moment how I looked!

I had a small sealskin purse; I slipped the purse inside my muff and went downstairs. Soon it would be too warm to wear muffs, for the fine summer weather was fast approaching, but I was glad of mine to-day. Perhaps my sorrow had chilled me, for I felt rather cold. A taxi-cab came slowly by; I motioned to the man to stop. I got in, telling the driver to take me to 24c, Green Street, "And go as quickly as you can," I said. I was all impatience, and the possibility of Lord Hawtrey being out did not once occur to me.

We got to Green Street in a very few minutes and drew up at the right number. There was "24c," painted in most distinct lettering on the highly-enamelled door. The door was enamelled a very soft shade of green, and I thought it looked remarkably well. I also remarked the flower boxes in each of the windows and how fresh and smart the flowers looked, but somehow they did not please me. I supposed that Lord Hawtrey had a passion for flowers, otherwise he would never have given me those roses. I hated the memory of those roses now; this time yesterday how passionately I had loved them, but now I hated them. I had supposed that they had come from my own true love, and they had in reality been the gift of an old man who might have been my father, for so I considered Lord Hawtrey.

I stepped out of the cab, paid the driver his fare, saw him move away, and then ran up the low flight of steps and rang the bell.

"Is Lord Hawtrey in?" I asked of the man in livery who attended to my summons.

A reply in the negative was instantly given to me.

"His lordship is out, miss." The man gave me a cold stare. But I was far too excited to think about his manner.

"Will he be in soon?" I asked. "I have come to see Lord Hawtrey on very important business."

"If you will step inside, miss, I will make inquiries. May I ask if his lordship is expecting you?"

"No," I answered. "This is Lady Helen Dalrymple's card; I have come from her house."

The man took the card and gave me a second glance, which now showed absolute respect. How magical was the effect of my stepmother's name! I wondered at it. I was glad that I had put a few of her cards in my purse.

In a very few minutes the servant returned to say that his lordship would be in almost immediately, and asking me if I would wish to wait in the white boudoir.

I said yes. Little did I care where I waited at that instant. The servant conducted me upstairs to a pretty room, which must have been arranged for a lady's comfort. It was furnished in white. The walls were white, so was the furniture. The only bit of colour anywhere was a very soft, very bright crimson carpet, into which one's feet sank. The effect of the crimson carpet on the white room was extremely effective. There were no pictures round the walls, but there were a great many mirrors, so that as I entered I caught the reflection of myself from many points of view. I sat down on a low chair and was glad to find that I could no longer look at my small, tired face.

The minutes passed; a little clock over the mantelpiece told me the time. Five minutes went by, ten, fifteen, then there was a sound downstairs, men's voices talking together, men laughing and chatting volubly, some ladies joining in their talk. Then there was a sudden kind of hush. All the visitors entered a room a considerable way off, and a minute later there was a hurried ascending of the stairs, the door was opened with a sort of impetuosity, and Lord Hawtrey, looking slightly flushed, surprised, and not altogether pleased, entered the room.

"My dear Miss Dalrymple," he began, "I am amazed to see you here and—and charmed, of course—but is there anything wrong, is there anything I can do for you? What is it, my dear little girl?"

Lord Hawtrey dropped his society manners on the spot. With his quick, kind eyes he read the distress on my face.

"I want you to help me," I said, "I want to speak to you all alone—but you have brought visitors in. May I stay here until they go?"

"Oh, no, that won't do at all. Of course, I should be delighted to talk to you now; let me think. My sister, Lady Mary Percy, is downstairs—I will see her. She will come and talk with you."

"But it is you I want to see, Lord Hawtrey."

"Leave the matter in my hands, dear child, I'll attend to everything. By the way, where is your stepmother and where is your father to-day?"

"They have gone in the motor-car into the country."

"I will see my sister; she will be with you in a minute or two."

Lord Hawtrey left the room. I felt puzzled and distressed. I wondered if I had done wrong. A very few moments passed and then the same servant who had admitted me appeared, bearing a charming little tray which held afternoon tea for two.

"Lady Mary Percy will be here in a moment, miss," he said, "she desires you not to wait for her."

I did wait. I did not want tea, nor did I want to see Lady Mary, but in a very few minutes, true to the servant's words, she appeared. She was a very pretty woman, and looked quite young beside her brother. She had a kind, thoughtful face, a high-bred face, the face of one who had never in the whole of her life thought of anything except what was good and noble. I was certain of that the moment I saw her. I was glad now that Lord Hawtrey had asked her to come to me. In my excitement I forgot that she must think my conduct strange, and must wonder what sort of a girl I, Heather Dalrymple, was. She came up to me and held out her hand, then she looked into my face.

"Lord Hawtrey has begged of me to come and see you. Shall we have some tea together?"

She sat down at once and poured out tea for us both. She offered me a cup, and I felt that I should be very rude if I refused it. It was with difficulty I could either eat or drink, but Lady Mary seemed to expect me to do so, and for her sake I made an effort. The tea did me good, for it was strong and fragrant, the bread and butter was delicious, it did me good also. I felt more like a child and less like an anguished, storm-tossed woman than I had done before that meal. When it came to an end Lady Mary touched a silver gong, and presently a woman, dressed beautifully all in white, and whom Lady Mary called Blanche, appeared.

"Take these things away, please, Blanche," she said, "and order my carriage to be at the door in half an hour."

"Yes, my lady," replied Blanche.

She removed the tea things, the door was shut behind her, and Lady Mary and I faced each other.

"Now," she said, "you had better tell me what you intended to say to my brother, Lord Hawtrey. I can see that you are in trouble, and I should very much like to help you."

"Oh, but it is impossible to tell you," I replied.

The colour rushed into my cheeks, then it receded, leaving them very pale. I knew they were pale, for I felt so cold.

Lady Mary changed her seat. She came over, took a low chair, seated herself by my side, and stretching out her hand, clasped one of mine in hers.

"Dear," she said, in a gentle tone, "you are very young, are you not?"

"I suppose so," I answered, "but I do not feel so. I am eighteen."

"Ah! But eighteen is extremely young; I know that, who am twenty-eight; my brother Hawtrey is forty."

"I know," I said, "your brother is old, is he not? I thought I might come to see a kind old man. Have I done wrong?"

"No, child, you have not done wrong; nevertheless, you have done something that the world would not approve of. Now, I want you to come away to my house. I live in another part of London; in my house you can see my brother if you wish, but why do you not confide in me? I should like to be your friend."

I looked straight up at her. After all, she was nearer to my own age. Could I not tell her? I said impulsively:

"I will go away to your house with you and I will tell you there, and you can advise me what I ought really to do."

"Yes, I am sure that will be much the wisest plan. And now let us talk of other matters."

She began to chat in a light, winsome voice. After a time she begged of me to excuse her and went downstairs. She came back again in a few minutes.

"I have told my brother that you would tell me what you intended to say to him, and he is quite pleased with the idea," she said, "and my carriage is now at the door, so shall we go?"

"Yes," I answered.

We went downstairs together. We entered a very luxurious carriage, which was drawn by a pair of spirited bay horses. In a few minutes we found ourselves in another part of fashionable London. I cannot even to this day recall the name of the street. The house was not at all unlike Lord Hawtrey's house; it was furnished with the same severity, and the same excellent taste. Lady Mary took me into a little boudoir, which was destitute of knick-knacks and bric-À-brac. But it had many flowers, and, what I greatly enjoyed, a comfortable sense of space. My hostess drew a cushioned chair forward and desired me to sit in it; I did so. Then she seated herself and took one of my hands.

"Your story, Miss Heather Dalrymple?" she said.

"I will tell you," I answered. "Perhaps you will be dreadfully angry, but I cannot help it, you must know. I am eighteen and Lord Hawtrey is forty. I think Lord Hawtrey one of the best men in all the world; he is so kind and he has such a beautiful way with him. Last night he dined at our house and afterwards he came to see me quite by myself, and he spoke as no other man ever spoke to me before, only you must understand, please, and not be angry, that I could not do what he wanted. He wanted a very young girl like me, a girl who knows nothing at all of life, to—to marry him. Do you think that was fair or right, Lady Mary Percy?"

Lady Mary's brown eyes seemed to dance in her head. It was with an effort she suppressed something which might have been a smile or might have been a frown. After a minute's silence she said gently:

"It altogether depends on the girl to whom such a speech is addressed."

"I know that," I answered, "but this girl, the girl who is now talking to you ... I cannot even try to explain to you what a simple life I have lived—just the very quietest, and with a dear, dear old lady, who is poor, and doesn't know anything about the luxuries of the rich people of London. She has brought me up, during all the years I have been with her, to think nothing whatsoever of riches; she has got that idea so firmly into my mind that I don't think it can be uprooted. So whatever happens, I am not likely to care for Lord Hawtrey because he is rich, nor to care for him because he is a nobleman or has high rank, or anything of that sort. I said to him last night: 'You don't want to force me to be your wife,' and he answered, 'You must come to me of your own free will.' Well, it is just this, Lady Mary. I can never come to him of my own free will, never, never!"

"He told me, child," said Lady Mary, in a quiet, low, very level sort of voice, "that he had spoken to you. I was a good deal astonished; I thought the advantages were on your side. You must forgive me; you have spoken frankly to me, it is my turn to speak frankly to you—I thought the disadvantages were on his side. A very young, innocent, ignorant girl, I did not think a suitable wife for my brother, but he assured me that he loved you, he assured me also that there was something about you which wins hearts. That being the case, I—well, I said no more. Now you speak to me as though I earnestly desired this marriage. I do not earnestly desire it—I don't wish for it at all."

"Then you will prevent it? How splendid of you!" I said, and I bent forward as though I would kiss her hand.

She moved slightly away from me. She was in touch with me, but not altogether in touch at that moment.

"I will tell you what has really happened," I said. "I must. I admire your brother beyond words, I know how tremendously he has honoured me, and I think somehow, if things were different, that I might feel tempted to—just to do what he wants. But things are so circumstanced that I cannot possibly do what Lord Hawtrey wishes, for I love another man. He is quite young, he—he and I love each other tremendously. He asked me this morning to be his wife and I accepted him. I was in the Park when I met him, and he asked me there and then. We walked home together, my maid was with us, so I suppose it was all right. This is a very queer world, where there seems no freedom for any young girl. I brought Vernon Carbury——"

"Whom did you say?"

"Captain Carbury, I mean. I brought him into the room with my father and mother—or my stepmother—and—he told them what he wanted. They sent me away—I was rather frightened when they did that—and when they had him all alone they spoke to him and they told him that he was to go out of my life, because, Lady Mary, your brother, Lord Hawtrey, was to come in. They said that they wanted me to marry your brother, and I won't—I can't—and I much want you to help me in this matter."

"Upon my word!" said Lady Mary. She rose abruptly and began to pace the room. "You are the queerest girl I ever met! There must be some queer sort of witchery about you. On a certain night you are proposed to by my brother Hawtrey, the head of our house, one of the richest men in England, and certainly one of the most nobly born. You snub him, just as though he were a nobody. On the following morning you receive a proposal from Vernon Carbury, he who was engaged to Lady Dorothy Vinguard."

"Yes, but all that is at an end," I said.

"I know, I know. Dorothy is not a perfectly silly girl like you, and she is marrying a man older and richer and greater than Carbury. And so you have fallen in love with him? Yes, I know; those blue eyes of his would be certain to make havoc in more than one girl's heart. It is a pretty tale, upon my word it is, and out of the common. Now you have confided things to me, I don't think Hawtrey will trouble you any more; perhaps I can see to that. Would you like to go back home—and before you go, is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, oh, no," I said, "you have made me quite happy!"

"I am glad of that. You are a very strange girl; I suppose you will marry Captain Carbury some day. You are, of course, quite unaware of the fact that Hawtrey must have loved you beyond the ordinary when he made up his mind to take as a wife the daughter of Major Grayson?"

I sprang to my feet.

"What do you mean by those words?"

"Don't you know, child, don't you know?"

"I know nothing, except that my father is the best man in all the world."

Lady Mary looked at me, at first with scorn, then a strange, new, softened, pitying expression flashed over her face.

"You poor little girl!" she said. "Have you never suspected, have you never guessed, why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple, and why he took her name, and why——"

"Don't tell me any more," I said, "please don't, I would rather not know. Good-bye—you have been kind, you have meant to be very kind, but you are hinting at something quite awful—all the same, I will find out—yes, I will find out! My father do a mean thing! Indeed, you little know him. Good-bye, Lady Mary."

"Stay, child; the carriage must take you home."

"No, I will walk," I said.

My heart was burning within me. I really thought that I should break down, but although I heard Lady Mary ring her bell, and passed an astonished servant coming up the stairs in answer to her summons, I managed to get into the street before she could interfere. I was glad of this. I must walk, I must get away from myself, I must find out once for all what terrible thing was the matter—what secret there was in my father's life.

I walked and walked, and was so absorbed in myself and my own reflections, that I was quite oblivious of the fact that people glanced at me from time to time. I had not the manner of a London girl, and did not wear the dress of the sort of girl who walks about London unattended. At last I came to a big park—I think now it must have been Regent's Park, but I am by no means sure. The trees looked cool and inviting, the grass was green, there were broad paths and, of course, there were flowers everywhere. It occurred to me then, as I entered the park and sat down on a low seat not far from the water, that I could not possibly do better in existing circumstances than go back to Aunt Penelope. If I could only see Aunt Penelope once more I should know what to do, and I should force her to tell me my father's story.

"It is positively wrong to keep it from me," I thought; "I cannot act in the dark, I cannot endure this suspense; whatever has happened, he is right, he is good, he is splendid and noble. Nothing would induce me to believe anything against him."

I took my purse out of my pocket, and opening it, spread its contents on the palm of my hand. I had three pounds in my purse, plenty of money, therefore, to go back to the dear little village where I had been brought up.