She had arrived about half an hour before, and the politely concealed satisfaction and surprise with which she had been received had testified to the fact that her appearance at such a function was a phenomenon in the neighbourhood. Invitations had showered in on her during her residence at the “cottage,” but it had gradually become an established fact that she was “going out very little.” This was in truth the first party she had attended. It was fortunate that her hostess was not a particularly observant person. There had been something about Mrs. Romayne when she arrived which might have dashed that hostess’s personal elation with a suspicion that her guest’s appearance had been dictated by motives not wholly complimentary to the party; lines about the mouth which suggested the enforced endurance of a burden from which she was seeking temporary relief, however fictitious; a restlessness in the eyes which suggested an attempt at the eluding of the too insistent companionship of her own thoughts. Her eyes were painfully bright, and there was a nervous tension about her manner as she stood there on the lawn, talking and laughing. But her companion of the moment--a worthy old gentleman, with not much acquaintance among women of the world--thought her simply the most astonishingly charming woman he had ever met; and seeking in his mind for lines on which to make himself agreeable to her, he recollected to have heard something about her son. “You have a son here, I believe?” he said, with ponderous interest. “I should greatly like to make his acquaintance.” Mrs. Romayne laughed. “I have a son,” she said, “but he is not here, I’m sorry to say. He is hard at work just at present. Ah!” she broke off with an exclamation of surprise. “I see a friend of mine over there! I must go and speak to her.” And with a bow and a smile to her admirer, she broke off the conversation which had, perhaps, seemed longer to one party than to the other, and moved across the lawn to where Hilda Compton was standing watching her with an uncertain but not particularly pleasant expression on her pretty face. “Are you staying in the neighbourhood?” said Mrs. Romayne prettily, when they had shaken hands. She was apparently entirely oblivious of something cold and disagreeable in the younger woman’s manner. “Is your husband here?” Hilda Compton glanced at her with a certain tentative triumph in her eyes. “No!” she said. “He’s not here. I’m staying on a house-boat, but he is kept in town over some troublesome business!”