A day or two later when Philip, preparatory to his departure from London, was choosing a fishing-rod in a well-known shop devoted to the requirements of anglers, a little lady dressed in the height of fashion rustled over to him from the farther end of the showroom where she had been standing in company with an elderly, distinguished-looking man.

"Is it Mr. Flint?" she inquired gaily; and as he looked at her in puzzled politeness a vague memory returned to him of someone trigged out in sequins and tinsel, with a tambourine....

"You don't remember me? This time I'm not pretending. We really have met before! My name is Matthews—Maud Verrall, you know, Stella Crayfield's friend. How history repeats itself. Fancy my having to introduce myself again, and all among fishing-rods and tackle and things, instead of in a ball-room full of dressed-up idiots in India!"

"Why, of course—of course, how are you?" he said, gathering his wits together, battling with an impulse to attack her on the spot as to Stella's whereabouts, to ask her all about her. If anyone knew it would be this wonderfully garbed little person, who now proceeded to beckon to her deserted companion.

"Here's another old friend of Stella's, Sir George Rolt; you saw him at that horrible ball, if you remember——"

The shop assistant stood by in patient resentment as the male customers neglected their object, and the lady chattered of everything but fishing-rods.

"I'm taking Sir George down with me to my old home in the country to-morrow for a visit," she told Mr. Flint; "he and my husband are going to fish from morning till night. So dull for me! but I shall have Stella to talk to, and she will be thankful. She's at The Chestnuts, you know. 'Grandmamma and the Aunts'," she added with a mischievous "moue," then she sighed "Poor Stella!" and she looked at him searchingly. "That was a terrible business, wasn't it?"

Philip composed himself with an effort. "Her husband's death, you mean? Yes, I suppose it was. I have heard nothing of her since it happened. I hope she is well, have you seen her lately?"

"Quite lately; I've only been in town for a flying visit, just to get clothes."

There was an awkward pause. Philip became aware that Sir George was regarding him with particular attention. Was the man Stella's future husband? The possibility filled him with helpless rage.

Mrs. Matthews coughed artificially and glanced from one man to the other. "Sir George, dear," she said sweetly, "you'd better go back to that kind gentleman who was giving you such good advice about fishing-rods, or someone else will snap him up. I want to talk secrets with Mr. Flint, if he's not in too great a hurry."

Sir George smiled and moved away compliantly. Mrs. Matthews apologised to Philip's assistant. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I haven't seen this friend of mine for such ages. Presently he will buy heaps of things, don't wait for him now if you are busy. I will see that he doesn't run away!"

The young man succumbed to her blandishments, and Mrs. Matthews piloted Philip to a corner of the shop where she annexed a couple of chairs.

"This is a funny place for a private conversation!" she remarked, "but I'm not going to lose such a chance now I've got it. Fancy our meeting like this; what a piece of luck! Now listen to me and answer my questions." She scrutinised him closely. "You look struck all of a heap!"

"I feel it," said Philip briefly.

"Why? because you want to hear news of Stella, or because you don't?"

"Because it's the one thing in the world I wish for," he answered, his heart beating fast.

Her face cleared. "That's all right; one step forward! Now tell me—do you know why Stella never answered your letter?"

"There could be only one reason. I told her in my letter that if I did not hear from her I should understand." He fixed his eyes on a stuffed salmon in a glass case, he could not bring himself to meet Mrs. Matthews' inquisitive gaze.

"You silly fool!" said Stella's friend vigorously. "Couldn't you have guessed that she must have had some desperate reason?"

"I thought——"

"You thought everything that was wrong, of course. Men always do. Sir George Rolt thinks he is devoted to me at present, dear old thing, and that I am equally 'gone' on him, but he's mistaken, though it's great fun for us both while it lasts. Can you stand a shock, Mr. Philip Flint?"

"I can stand anything," said Philip doggedly, "except——"

"I know what you were going to say—except to hear that Stella never wants to see you again?"

"Exactly."

"Would it make any difference if you found her altered in another way?"

"How do you mean?" he asked, mystified.

Then Mrs. Matthews 'set to' as she would herself have expressed it, and for the space of five minutes she talked breathlessly, uninterrupted by Philip, who listened to her in greedy silence.

"There," she concluded at last. "Now, do you see?"

"Not altogether, I must confess. I don't see why Stella should have concluded that her appearance would have made the smallest difference to me, after my letter. It was very unfair to me!"

"Don't talk such trash. It was perfectly natural. She was too hideous for words until she got home; we came home together, and I made her put herself into the hands of an expert. Massage and treatment did wonders, but, all the same, poor dear, she will never be beautiful again!"

"Good heavens, as if that would matter to me. Whatever she looks like——" he paused, overcome by his feelings.

"Well, I will believe you, though one never knows! Anyway she's not so bad, it's only one side of her face."

"Mrs. Matthews, for goodness' sake don't talk like this; I can't bear it. Just tell me, once for all—does Stella care for me still?"

"Yes, darling, she does; and the best thing you can do is to come down with me and Sir George to-morrow, fishing-rods and all, to The Court, and make her tell you so herself. Will you?"

"Will I?" he scoffed ecstatically. "Mrs. Matthews, you are an angel!"

"Not yet," she assured him. "I don't mean to die young."

* * * * * *

Philip Flint walked up the short drive to The Chestnuts. The air was filled with the peace and the scent of the summer's evening; and as he viewed the old house with its little paved terrace, the lawn sloping down to the stream, the cedar tree, the red wall of the kitchen garden, he felt that it was all familiar to him.

An old lady was seated on the terrace flags—that would be "Grandmamma"; and an austere-looking female emerged from one of the French windows to speak to the old lady—was that Aunt Augusta, or Aunt Ellen? His heart warmed towards them. And as he hesitated, hardly daring to go forward, he caught sight of a form stretched on a long chair beneath the cedar tree.

Boldly he took a short cut through the shrubs. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up, gave a little cry, hid her dear, maimed face in her hands. Stella—his beloved, his star, his Star of India!

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