‘Gaston, how shall I get rid of Lord Rex Basire? He has sent in his card and some flowers, as if flowers from a stranger could give one pleasure! He demands news of me, the French girl says, but that is too senseless. Tell me the civil way to--to----’ ‘Shut the door in his face,’ observed Gaston Arbuthnot, looking up from his model as Dinah hesitated. ‘Why shut the door at all? The poor boy will be better off talking to you than he would be making useless purchases for young ladies in the Petersport shops.’ ‘But I am at work. I am counting off stitches for the forget-me-nots round Aunt Susan’s ottoman, and then I shall come outside. I want no company but yours.’ ‘Basire will help you to count forget-me-nots. The very employment he would delight in!’ And, raising his voice, Gaston Arbuthnot called cheerily to the servant that Madame was visible. There was no time for Dinah to escape. In another minute Lord Rex had followed his hothouse bouquet, his card, and the French waitress into her presence. She suffered him to possess her hand for one chill, unwilling instant. Determined, after a somewhat confused and halting fashion, to amend the error of her ways, to instruct herself, as in a book, in the usages of Gaston’s world, poor Dinah shrank like a child from the initiatory chapter of her lesson. She had endured Lord Rex, yesterday, in the spirit of martyrdom. But to-day, to-morrow! Over what space between the present time and September was her endurance to last? ‘I was afraid if I waited till the afternoon you would be out, Mrs. Arbuthnot. And I have a weighty matter to put into your hands; I--I--mean an awfully great favour to ask of you.’ Rex Basire, as garrison society knew him, was a youth weighted by no undue modesty, no obsolete chivalrous deference in his manner towards Woman. He really shone, little though Dinah might appreciate such shining, as he stood, hesitating--for a moment half abashed--before the calm coldness of her face. ‘You will forgive me for calling at this unholy hour?’ he proceeded as she remained silent. Dinah Arbuthnot glanced towards the flood of sunshine that rested on the flower-bright borders of Mr. Miller’s garden. ‘Why is the hour unholy?’ she inquired, with slow gravity. ‘I mean an hour when you were certain to be busy,’ said Lord Rex, approaching her work-table. ‘Now I can see I am interrupting you, Mrs. Arbuthnot, am I not?’ He drew forward a chair for Dinah; then, after standing for some appreciable time, and finding that she neither spoke to him nor looked at him, he seated himself, uninvited. ‘Awful shame, isn’t it, to interrupt you like this?’ ‘It does not matter much, my lord. My time was occupied in nothing more important than counting stitches for a border--that dreariest form of feminine arithmetic,’ Dinah’s lips relaxed, ‘as my husband calls it.’ ‘Does your husband say so really? Just what one might expect. All husbands are alike.’