Aurea was secretly annoyed by the way that girls on practice nights set their caps at the newcomer--boldly attracting his attention, appealing to his opinion, nudging one another significantly, and giggling and simpering when they spoke to him. And he? He met them half-way, shared hymn-books, found places, and talked, and seemed to be entirely happy and at ease in their company. Why not? He was ostensibly of their own class. He had not flinched from accepting a peppermint from Lily Jakes,--on the contrary, had received it with effusion,--and the overblown rosebud, tossed at him by Alexandra Watkins, had subsequently decorated his buttonhole. Aurea contemplated these signs of good fellowship with stifled irritation. Was she envious, because the chauffeur, her aunts’ servant, usually so monosyllabic and self-contained, could laugh and talk with these village girls? At this appalling arraignment her face flamed, she shrank in horror from her own thoughts. No, no, no, a hundred thousand times no! Still, it must be confessed that, strive as she would, she could not help wondering and speculating about Owen, the chauffeur--whether she saw him vigorously washing the car, or trundling a wheelbarrow in the garden; zealously as he worked, it seemed to her observant eye that he looked as if he had not been accustomed to such employment. Who was he? The answer to this question came to her unexpectedly, and in a most unlikely place. Aurea and her Aunt Susan went to Brodfield one afternoon, in order to execute various commissions for the Manor; the car was grudgingly lent for the occasion. There would have been no expedition, only that Miss Parrett was out of a certain shade of pink wool, the new cook was out of tapioca, and Miss Susan was a little out of sorts, and declared that “a drive in the air would cure her.” The car waited at the post office, whilst the ladies accomplished their different errands in different shops. Aurea was the first to finish, and was sauntering slowly up the street, when she noticed that rare sight--a soldier in uniform--a smart Hussar on furlough, with a friend in mufti, coming towards her. As they passed the car, they glanced at it, and the soldier started, made a sort of halt, stared stupidly, and brought his hand to the salute! Yes, and the chauffeur gave him a little nod, and put his finger to his cap! (apparently unconscious of Miss Morven’s vicinity). As the two men approached, talking loudly, she overheard the Hussar say, as he strutted by-- “Well I’m damned, if that fellow on the car wasn’t Lieutenant Wynyard! I was in his troop at Lucknow--a rare smart officer, too. What’s his little game?” “You’d better go back and arsk ’im,” suggested the other, with a loud laugh. “Not _me_,” and they were out of earshot.