‘Her name is Dinah Arbuthnot,’ replied Gaston cheerfully. ‘Yes, Mrs. Thorne, incredulous though I know you feel, the wonderful girl in black, and who is walking with Miss Bartrand of Tintajeux, is--my wife.’ Lord Rex sank in an attitude of despair, half mock, half genuine, upon the nearest bench. CHAPTER XIV BROUGHT UP BY THE JESUITS Dinah Arbuthnot had been more than woman could she have run the gauntlet of this Guernsey rose-show unconscious of her success. But admiration to Dinah was no new thing. As a girl she never went through that chrysalis or ugly-duckling stage, the remembrance of which to many women puts an edge on after triumphs. Heads were turning after her to-day, she saw, just as heads used to turn when she was a baby toddling along the Devonshire lanes, or a slim maid walking in the procession of ‘young ladies’ from Tiverton boarding-school. She had known since she knew anything that she was beautiful, and rated beauty at a pathetically low standard. Thanks to roseleaf tint or well-cut features, a sweetheart’s fancy can easily be won. Who should say that cleverness, knowledge of the world, tact, are not the solid gifts that bring happiness, the qualities that might chain a husband--wearied, say, after modelling from hired beauty--to his own fireside? ‘If you do not object, Miss Bartrand, I would like to find some place where we could rest, away from the crowd, a little.’ Bent upon displaying their friendship before the Sarnian world, Marjorie had by this time paraded her companion bravely throughout the length and breadth of the Arsenal. ‘My husband has seen me. He is in the tent near the entrance--the tent where Mrs. Thorne is serving refreshments. As Mr. Arbuthnot does not come forward to meet us, I am afraid he is displeased.’ ‘Displeased! That is a great idea,’ cried headstrong Marjorie. ‘Put all the blame on me. I think I shall be strong enough to bear the brunt of Mr. Arbuthnot’s wrath if I rest myself well first.’ They succeeded in finding a bench, withdrawn somewhat from the crowd, yet within sight of the stall at which Linda presided. Here Dinah could pluck up her drooping courage, while Marjorie communed scornfully in her heart as to the pitiful weakness of married women in general, and of this most neglected, most mistaken married woman in particular. Their seclusion lasted for two or three minutes only. Then a blush started up into Dinah’s cheek, vivid, bashful, such as a girl’s face might wear on catching sight unexpectedly of her lover, for she saw Gaston approaching. At his side was a very dandily dressed, sun-tanned youth, his arm in a sling; a youth whom as yet Dinah Arbuthnot knew not. ‘He is coming! Miss Bartrand, I look to you to smooth things over. Just say you pressed me to come to the show, and I refused at first, and----’