Miss Parrett was no more; a sudden attack of “her bronchitis”--she always spoke as if it were an exclusive possession--had hurried her out of existence. She had, however, executed her will, and after elaborate directions respecting her funeral, her monument, and her hatchment, it was found that she had bequeathed all she possessed to her sister Susan, with the exception of her automobile, which was left to her dear friend, Mrs. Maria Wiggens; and whether this memento was instigated by generosity or malice, is a debated question until the present hour. There were no legacies to charities, or even the smallest souvenir for her special little clique. The contents of the testament were a sore disappointment to some, but few grudged Miss Susan independence and fortune, for she knew how to make excellent use of both. Isabella Parrett was no more, and Susan, her sister, reigned in her stead. The Morven family, who were not real heart-and-soul golfers, were beginning to weary of the one perpetual subject that surrounded them from morning till night. The difficulties of the fifth tee, vivid descriptions of the various approaches, bunkers, and greens, had palled somewhat--even on the General. He secretly languished for the society of some one who had been in the Service, and a chance of discussing the late manœuvres as described in the daily Press. New arrivals were always a matter of interest, and here came two--ushered by the head waiter. There was a certain stir and a good deal of staring as a little elderly gentleman, with very square shoulders, and a young man--possibly his son--approached. “I say!” ejaculated General Morven, laying down his spoon, “if here isn’t old Dicky Wynyard!” and he rose from his seat and made signals. “Yes--and his nephew.” Aurea looked up with startled eyes, and became suddenly white. There was Owen approaching in the wake of his uncle; he wore an air of complete self-possession, the usual dinner-coat, and had undoubtedly cast off the rôle of chauffeur. “I say, this _is_ good luck!” exclaimed the General, extending a genial hand. “Fancy meeting you up here, Sir Richard! I did not know you ever came North! Hullo, Wynyard, glad to see you. I’ve not come across you in the club for ages.” “Yes; I’ve been recommended to Lossiemouth to get the real, unadulterated air straight from the North Pole and to have a little golf, and I’ve brought this young fellow along with me,” Sir Richard answered, lying boldly and with ease; his nephew was positively staggered by such fluent proficiency. “I think you know my wife,” said the General. “Yes; let me introduce you to my niece, Miss Morven.” Sir Richard bowed, and said-- “And allow me to present my nephew, Mr. Wynyard--Mrs. Morven,” and, accompanying his introduction with a sharp glance, “Miss Morven.” “Mr. Wynyard and I have already met,” she announced, in a faint voice.