‘But I have driven over to my father’s--Sir William De Stancy’s--house this morning,’ she went on. ‘And on mentioning your name to him, I found he knew it quite well. You will, will you not, forgive my ignorance in having no better knowledge of the elder Mr. Somerset’s works than a dim sense of his fame as a painter? But I was going to say that my father would much like to include you in his personal acquaintance, and wishes me to ask if you will give him the pleasure of lunching with him to-day. My cousin John, whom you once knew, was a great favourite of his, and used to speak of you sometimes. It will be so kind if you can come. My father is an old man, out of society, and he would be glad to hear the news of town.’ Somerset said he was glad to find himself among friends where he had only expected strangers; and promised to come that day, if she would tell him the way. That she could easily do. The short way was across that glade he saw there--then over the stile into the wood, following the path till it came out upon the turnpike-road. He would then be almost close to the house. The distance was about two miles and a half. But if he thought it too far for a walk, she would drive on to the town, where she had been going when he came, and instead of returning straight to her father’s would come back and pick him up. It was not at all necessary, he thought. He was a walker, and could find the path. At this moment a servant came to tell Miss De Stancy that the telegraph was calling her. ‘Ah--it is lucky that I was not gone again!’ she exclaimed. ‘John seldom reads it right if I am away.’ It now seemed quite in the ordinary course that, as a friend of her father’s, he should accompany her to the instrument. So up they went together, and immediately on reaching it she applied her ear to the instrument, and began to gather the message. Somerset fancied himself like a person overlooking another’s letter, and moved aside. ‘It is no secret,’ she said, smiling. ‘“Paula to Charlotte,” it begins.’ ‘That’s very pretty.’ ‘O--and it is about--you,’ murmured Miss De Stancy. ‘Me?’ The architect blushed a little. She made no answer, and the machine went on with its story. There was something curious in watching this utterance about himself, under his very nose, in language unintelligible to him. He conjectured whether it were inquiry, praise, or blame, with a sense that it might reasonably be the latter, as the result of his surreptitious look into that blue bedroom, possibly observed and reported by some servant of the house. ‘“Direct that every facility be given to Mr. Somerset to visit any part of the castle he may wish to see. On my return I shall be glad to welcome him as the acquaintance of your relatives. I have two of his father’s pictures.”’ ‘Dear me, the plot thickens,’ he said, as Miss De Stancy announced the words. ‘How could she know about me?’