At this moment a party of compatriots arrived, and figuratively swallowed up General and Mrs. Morven, the Rector, Mrs. Ramsay, and even the celebrated Mr. Masham. Here was Wynyard’s opportunity, and, as usual, he seized upon it without ceremony. It was impossible that Aurea (who was rarely out of his thoughts), whose little word, “perhaps,” had buoyed him up on many stormy waters, meant what her looks and attitude implied. Resolutely he came up to her, ignoring the glassy stare of her companion, and said-- “Miss Morven--has forgotten me--_perhaps_?” Miss Morven looked up at him with an expression of delicate disdain. Could this self-possessed young lady, in a wonderful hat and Parisian frock, be the self-same girl who had stood beside him on Yampton Hill, with loosened hair and spattered habit? After a reflective pause, she murmured-- “No, I’ve not forgotten my aunts’--er--chauffeur; but I do not think we were ever--_acquainted_.” Wynyard had wonderful self-command, but mentally he reeled; he felt as if some one had suddenly dealt him a terrible blow between the eyes. Outwardly he turned a sudden, pallid white, and drew back, as Miss Morven rose, picked up her parasol, and said to her companion-- “_Now_, if you like, I will go down to the Condamine and see the motor boats.” And, almost at the same moment, Mr. Masham claimed his companion and hurried him away to the garage. “I say,” said the General to his brother (he usually prefaced his remarks with “I say”), “who was the young stranger who seemed to know Ottinge? ’Pon my word, he deserves a medal for the discovery. Wait, I seem to know his face! Yes, I’ve got it. Wynyard of the Red Hussars--he went the pace--uncle cut up rough--he’s in my club.” “No, for once you are a bit out! You will be amused to hear that that good-looking, well-set-up young man was Bella’s chauffeur.” “Nonsense!” “It’s a sober fact. I liked him,” continued the Rector; “he has good manners--manners make the man--I had him in the choir, and he’s a first-class cricketer. I always, between you and me, believed him to be a gentleman who was expiating some--er--mistake. I declare, Susan was actually fond of him, and he turned the heads, unintentionally--I’ll say that for him--of every girl in the village.” “Well, I’m blowed! He is the very image of Dick Wynyard’s heir--next to the baronetcy and property. Old Dick never speaks of him now, and I’ve not seen him about for nearly two years. Mrs. Ramsay, what do you say to a village romance, and a chauffeur being as like a young swell as two peas?” “Oh,” replied the lady, deliberately moulding on her gloves, “truth is stranger than fiction; I’ve known some funny things in my life. I always liked Owen, and I am glad to see he is getting up in the world.”