“That’s all right, then,” said her uncle heartily. “Now we all know one another,” and he rubbed his hands. “Sir Richard, will you sit at our table? There is lots of room for five.” “Thanks, we shall be delighted.” “How did you discover Lossiemouth?” inquired Mrs. Morven when the newcomers were seated. “Well, the fact is, I never heard of it till lately, and then a friend strongly advised me to try it--he said it was just the place to suit me.” He glanced complacently at his nephew, as much as to claim approval. “I’m uncommonly glad to meet you, General; we can have some rounds together. What’s your handicap?” As the two older men talked, Mrs. Morven proceeded to cultivate the younger, and Aurea for once felt herself out in the cold and--what was more serious--indescribably ill at ease. She dropped her fork, helped herself twice to salt, and crumbled her uncle’s bread. It was evident that Owen, or, rather, Mr. Wynyard, had made his peace and was reinstated in his proper niche in society. Why had he come to Lossiemouth? Why was Sir Richard looking at her so keenly with his little searching eyes? Why was Owen making himself so extremely agreeable to her aunt?--listening, with reverent sympathy, to a harrowing description of her neuralgia, and a still more harrowing account of the death of her beautiful prize blue Persian--run over by a motor in Eaton Place. “Think of it! A motor--a motor going over a cat!” “I’m afraid motors are no respecter of persons or cats. As to dogs, they are killed by the dozen.” Mrs. Morven shuddered, sipped her claret, and turned the subject to books and fiction. “I hope you have brought something fresh? Our stock is nearly exhausted.” “I’m afraid not, only a couple of magazines; I was reading a thriller in the train. The worst of it is, that just as you become passionately interested and something tremendous is going to happen, you are choked off by a full-page advertisement of pills or boot polish. I like my fiction undiluted; don’t you?” Aurea was amazed at this flow of conversation from the monosyllabic Owen. Evidently Owen was one individual, and Mr. Wynyard another. She was even more impressed by the quiet confidence of his manner. Had he noted her embarrassment and nervousness? Suddenly he turned to her, and said-- “And how is Ottinge, Miss Morven?” The question was so unexpected that for an instant she could not find her voice; there seemed to be an obstruction in her throat, but she managed to reply-- “It is much as usual.” “What! no change in twelve months!” he exclaimed, in a key of surprise. “Oh, but, of course, the world flows very deliberately in that sleepy old village. And how is Mrs. Ramsay?” “Very well; she generally has a houseful of nephews and nieces, very Irish and lively.” “And the Hogbens--are they flourishing?” “Yes, old Mrs. Topham is dead; she left a great deal of money in unexpected places. Tom and Dilly are comparatively rich, and have moved into Claringsbold.”