"Good-morning," she replied, laughingly; "I shall have my ideal of fairyland after this, Lord Vivianne." "What will it be?" he asked. "A flower-show. It is really very beautiful; I cannot tell you how much I enjoy it." "Perhaps novelty adds to the charm," he said. "The most beautiful flowers I have ever seen are at Downsbury Castle. You have been to Downsbury Castle, Lady Studleigh?" "Yes," she replied, with the frankest unconcern, "I was there last year. I thought the flowers very beautiful." "I once saw a flower," he said, "that I would defy all creation to equal." "Did you? For my part, I think them all beautiful alike. Have you seen the japonicas here?" "No, I have only just arrived." To himself he added, despairingly: "I must be wrong. She could not be so frankly unconcerned. Besides, how could the girl I took to Florence with me be Lord Studleigh's daughter?" "Did you like Downsbury Castle?" he asked, again. "Yes, but I cannot say that I was ecstatically happy there." "Why not?" he asked. "You ought to be happy everywhere." She laughed a low, musical laugh. "I do not think," she said, "that I was a great favorite with her grace." "With the duchess--why not?" "For many reasons. She did not like the color of my hair, because it is brighter than Lady Linleigh's. She did not like my name; she said it had the flavor of common poetry about it." "Your name? If I am not presumptuous, what is it?" "Doris," she replied, and she raised her eyes to his with a look of most angelic innocence. He was bewildered. "Doris," he repeated. "I knew a Doris once--the one so like you." "Doris--how strange." Again the low, sweet laugh that maddened him. "I assure you," she continued, "that I am like the duchess--I dislike the name exceedingly." He was looking at her in a maze of perplexity. She was so like; it must be his Dora. The name, too; it could not be a coincidence. Yet, if she were the girl he had betrayed, it was not natural that she could refrain from showing some little emotion, some fear, some surprise. She did not appear to notice that there was anything strange in his silence or his fixed regard. "I have a theory of my own about names," she continued, "and I think it the most cruel thing in the world to give a child either an ungainly or an unusual one. If I had had a sensible name, I should not have been full of caprice, as I am now."