It was the second morning after Lady Mabel's dinner-party. Claud and his niece sat together in the morning-room, discussing the affairs of the nation. A large picture-book was spread out across the young lady's knees, and her most serious attention was being bestowed on a picture of Joseph in the pit, which subject her uncle elucidated by a commentary not exactly remarkable for Scriptural accuracy.

He was preoccupied and bothered, and did not find the child's chatter so engrossing as usual, for he had many things on his mind.

There came an imperative knocking at the street door. He heard it, but without any particular anxiety. No visitor would penetrate into Mab's sanctum. It was not until the steps of the butler sounded along the tiled passage outside that he leaped to his feet with Kathleen in his arms, acutely conscious of the shabbiness of his brown velvet morning-coat.

There was a sharp rap on the door, then it was thrown broadly open, and in the aperture appeared the sturdy square figure, sun-browned face, and grizzled hair of Henry Fowler.

"Any admittance?" said his kind voice, cheerily. "I wouldn't let the good gentleman outside announce me. I think he took me for a country farmer, come to pay his respects—and he might have made a worse guess. How are you, my lad, how are you?"

Claud had swooped upon him, dragged him in, shut the door, and now stood shaking the two firm hands in their tawny doe-skin gloves as though he would shake them off.

"If anything in the world could make me feel good-tempered at this moment, it's the sight of you!" he cried, joyously. "Where did you spring from? What brought you up? How long can you stay? Tell me everything. This is a surprise of the right sort, and no mistake!"

"Not so very surprising, is it?" asked Henry, as he drew a letter in Percivale's unmistakable hand from his breast-pocket. "I thought I must come and settle this in person. I am the Misses Willoughby's delegate."

"Capital! Don't care what brings you. I only know how glad I am to see you."

"Not more so than I to see you, my lad. You don't look as well, though, as you did when you left Lower House. You must come down again as soon as ever you can get free of dissipations. Your chair still looks vacant at table, and your horse is eating his head off in the stable. George took him for a gallop the other day, and managed to lame him slightly. 'Eh,' says he, 'there'll be the devil to pay when Mr. Cranmer comes down!' So you see you're expected any time."

"How good that sounds!" cried Claud, sitting on the table and swinging his legs boyishly. "Ah, I would like to be there at this minute! You have had some fine seas rolling up in Brent Bay, I'll go bail! I fancy I can still feel the salt sting of that sou'-wester we faced together. And the excitement in which the Swan made her dÉbut!"

"Ay! That storm had consequences we little recked of," said Henry, thoughtfully fingering the letter in his hand. "To think of little Elsa! Well! Miss Ellen always said so. She was right, as usual. She is a woman of talent, is Miss Ellen, as well as being a saint on earth. But now, Claud, tell me, how have matters been arranged? I am an old stager, you see, and doubtless I don't march with the times; but this seems to me to be a very rapid business! 'Off with the old love and on with the new!' What has become of young Allonby? Has he quitted the lists, or how has he been disposed of?"

Claud put his hands over his ears with a gesture of despair.

"You may as well not waste your breath," he cried, in mock anger, "for not one word shall you get out of me on the subject of Miss Brabourne's love-affairs! I am sick of it! From morn till dewy eve do I hear of nothing else! It is my sister's one topic of conversation, and Percivale talks of it unceasingly! He has been here already once this morning pestering me to go with him to get her a necklace, or a plaything, or something! I'm hanged if I do! I have nothing to do with the matter—what's more, it doesn't interest me much! And now you come, on the top of everyone else, and gravely ask my opinion, or advice, or anything you please. Seriously, Fowler, you must excuse me; I will have nothing to say in the young lady's affairs, either to meddle or make. It is no business of mine whether she marries you, or the prime minister, or a crossing-sweeper, or anyone she chooses. I have worries enough of my own without puzzling over her the whole day long!"

"Poor fellow! Are you worried?" asked Henry, kindly, looking doubtfully at him. "You should come and live with me—I am sure the life would suit you. I have just lost my overseer—Preston—you remember him! His work would do admirably for you, young man—much better than lounging about up here in London in hot rooms, doing nothing."

"Doing nothing? I am minding the baby," said Claud, lightly, but the color flew to his fair face and he looked confused. "It is no good trying to reform me," he said, after a moment, his hot cheek against Kathleen's floss-silk curls; "I am an incorrigible idler."

"I never knew a man less idle by disposition than you are," was the answer, as Henry regarded him with a look at once wistful and disapproving.

"You're not thinking of getting married, then?" he asked, after an interval.

"Married—I? No," stammered Claud, incoherently, as he rose, set the child on the rug, and walked to the window.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Henry's puzzled gaze still followed the young man. At last, as if resigning the subject in hand as hopeless, he asked, abruptly:

"Where's Elsa?"

"Miss Brabourne? Oh, in bed."

"In bed? Is she ill? You should have told me."

"Oh, dear no, she is not ill. These are merely fashionable habits. Percivale thought, like you, that she must be ill; I had great difficulty in restraining him from rushing up to obtain the latest bulletin."

"But—your sister—the butler said she was out!"

"Oh, my sister is an early riser. She always breakfasts at eight."

"So used Elsa—she was the soul of punctuality."

"A compulsory punctuality, perhaps?"

"Well—I suppose so; but why—what on earth can induce her to stay in bed till this hour?"

"I am sure I don't know. Perhaps it is to take care of her complexion."

"Take care of her complexion!... The child must have altered strangely——"

"No; I don't think she has altered much; she has merely developed."

As he spoke, the door was flung open, and Miss Brabourne, in her riding-habit, entered.

"Lady Mabel, my horse is late again——" the frown died away from the pretty forehead, the great blue eyes grew wide with surprise.

"God-father!"

"Well, god-daughter! Are you surprised? Not more than I am. My little girl is a woman of fashion now!"

"Oh, how can you? Poor little me," said the girl, with an affected little laugh which jarred upon his nerves. "I am so pleased to see you! Are you come to stay here?"

"Of course," put in Claud, hurriedly.

"Thanks, Elsie, I shall perhaps be in town for a few days, but I prefer my own old room at the Langham."

"My sister won't hear of such a thing," urged Claud.

"Lady Mabel is more than kind, but I am an old bachelor, and I like my liberty. And so, Elsie, you are very well and blooming?"

"Oh, very, very! I am enjoying myself so much here!"

"I have a great deal to say to you, but you are going out now, I see?"

"Yes," she said, composedly, "I am going out now, but of course you will stay to lunch, and I shall see you afterwards. Mr. Cranmer, did you see Mr. Percivale?"

"Yes; he was very disappointed not to see you."

"He should not come before lunch. I must tell him so; he might know I should not be visible," said Percivale's betrothed, coolly.

The butler appeared.

"Captain and Miss St. Quentin are at the door, and your horse is round, miss."

"At last!" She caught up her gold-tipped riding-whip with her gauntletted hand, and waved it merrily at her god father. "I am going for a gallop round the Park with the St. Quentins, and then I shall see you again," she cried. "Mr. Cranmer, come and mount me, please, the groom is so awkward." She paused a moment at the door. "I have a great deal to tell you," said she, nodding, "so mind you are here on my return! I must not keep my friends waiting."

She was gone.

Mechanically Mr. Fowler went out into the hall and looked. Through the open door the gay winter sunshine shone on the glossy horses and the young, well-dressed riders. Claud helped the heiress to her saddle, gathered up the reins, gave them into her hands, bowed, patted the mare's glossy neck, and the party started away.

"She never asked after her aunts," Mr. Fowler was reflecting. "Not one word. And they brought her up."

Claud hardly liked to meet his eye as he returned slowly up the hall. His sympathy for the elder man was at that moment deep and intense. Henry had never been blind to Elsa's failings, but had always ascribed them to her bringing-up, and believed that, in a more genial atmosphere, they would vanish; that, when treated with love, the girl would grow loving. She had always in old days been so fond of him, clung to him, cried at his departure. He forgot that at that time his was the only notice she ever received, whereas now she had more notice from everyone than she knew what to do with. Collecting himself with an effort, he turned to Claud.

"I have some business I must see after just now," he said. "Am I likely to find Lady Mabel if I come about five?"

Claud thought it was kinder to let him go for the present. He had forgotten with what suddenness the change in the girl would come upon one who had not seen her for some months.

Henry left the house in a reverie so deep that he walked on, hardly knowing where. He was mystified, staggered, what the French call bouleversÉ. If a girl could so develop in a few months, what would she be in another year? Was it safe to let anyone marry such an extraordinary uncertainty? The problem was no nearer to being solved when he discovered that it was past two o'clock. Sensible of the pangs of a country appetite, he went to a restaurant, lunched leisurely, and then decided that it was not too early to present himself at Mansfield Road for a morning call.

It was strange how his spirits rose and his thoughts grew more agreeable as he walked briskly on. It was so pleasant to think that he was going to see Wynifred. Of course she might, and very probably would, be out; but he should not be discouraged. He meant to see her; if not to-day, then to-morrow; and he was a person who resolved seldom and firmly.

The aspect of the little house pleased him. The small garden strip was black and bare with winter, but indoors through the window could be seen a row of hyacinths in bloom, and a warm curtain of dull red serge was drawn across the hall, visible through the glass lights of the front door.

With a glow of pleasurable anticipation, he applied his hand to the knocker. Before he had time to breathe, the red curtain was torn aside, a girl had darted forward, seized the handle, and ejaculating, "Well?" in a tone as if her very life depended on the answer, fell back in confused recognition and apology.

It was Wynifred—but what a Wynifred! She looked all eyes. Her face was sheet-white, her hair thrust back in disorder from her forehead; her expression conveyed the idea of such suffering that her visitor's very heart was riven.

"Mr.—Fowler," she said, faintly. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Come in. We are in—trouble."

He closed the door, tossed his stick into a corner, and, taking both the girl's hands, drew her into the little dining-room.

"Miss Allonby," he said, in tones whose affectionate warmth was in itself a comfort—"Miss Allonby, if you are in trouble, I must help you. I have come at the right moment. Now, what is it? Do you feel able to tell me?"

She sank upon a chair, turning her quivering face away out of his sight.

"Oh!" she said, "how can I tell you? How can I? It is all so miserable, so.... What a way to receive you!... You must have thought me mad."

"I thought nothing of the kind. I could see that you were utterly over-wrought. For pity's sake, don't make apologies—don't treat me as if I were a stranger. Tell me what the trouble is."

She lifted her eyes, the lashes drowned in tears that could not fall.

"I will show you, I think," said she. "Come."

Rising, she hastily went out, he following, expecting he knew not what. She led him into the studio.

It was a fair-sized room, built out behind the small house. Usually it was a charming place. Girlish fingers had arranged quaint pottery and artistic draperies—placing lamps in dark corners, flowers in vases, and tinting the shabby furniture with color. The piano stood there, and near the fire a well-worn sofa, and two or three capacious wicker chairs.

To-day a nameless desolation overspread the very air. Mr. Fowler entered, and looked straight before him. An enormous canvas was mounted on a screw easel in the best light the room afforded. The landscape had been put in with masterly freedom, and was almost finished. But a hole a foot square gaped in the centre of the picture, and the canvas was hacked and torn away in strips, some lying on the floor beneath. Near this ruin was a gilt frame, the portrait from which had been slit clean out, torn across and across, and left in fragments. So all round the room. Picture after picture had been torn from the wall, and dashed to the ground as if by a frenzied hand. A pile of delicate water-color studies on paper lay in the grate half charred, wholly destroyed. The whole scene was one of utter and hopeless wreckage. The mischief was irremediable.

The visitor uttered an exclamation of consternation. "What does it mean?" he asked.

"I don't think I ought to tell you," said the girl, who was standing against the wall as if for support, her head thrown back, her eyes raised as if to avoid seeing the desolation which surrounded her.

"Nonsense. You must tell me," said Henry, bluntly.

Slowly she took a letter from her pocket, went forward, and laid it on a table which stood near the centre of the room. The table was heaped with a confusion of brushes, tubes of color, palette knives, varnish bottles, and mugs of turpentine, all of which had been pushed hastily together, that the letter might occupy a prominent position by itself.

"When I went to call my brother this morning," said Wyn, obeying his mandate as if she could not help herself, "I could not make him hear. At last I went in. He was not in his room; he had not been to bed at all. It seemed to give me a terrible shock: I—I—partly guessed ... I knew I ought to have told him; but I...."

"Don't reproach yourself—go straight on," said Henry, anxiously.

"I rushed down here: for he has done such a thing as sit up all night. He was gone; the room was as you see it. That letter was on the table."

He possessed himself of the envelope. It was hastily scrawled on the outside in pencil, "For Wynifred." In a tremor of apprehension, he drew out the enclosure. It was in Elsa's hand-writing.

"Dear Mr. Allonby,

"I am afraid this letter will make you very angry, and this makes me sorry to write, as I have always liked you so much, ever since I knew you. But I think I ought to let you know that I have found out that I do not love you well enough to marry you some day, as you hoped. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Percivale, who was so kind and good when everyone else thought that I had killed my brother. I hope this will not disappoint you too much, and that we shall always be friends. I send my love to your sisters, and remain,

"Yours sincerely,
"Elaine Bradbourne.

"P.S.—You see I had not seen Mr. Percivale when I said I would marry you."