"Only last week; we have been abroad. My wife was intending to call," said Major Fowler. "So glad to see you! Why, the little girls will be charmed! Here's one of your old playmates. You know, Mrs Fowler, he was always the children's friend--Una." Una rose and came forward, holding out her hand. "How d'ye do?" she said, coolly. Major Fowler fairly started. His mental vision of Una was so different from the reality. "Really," he said, "I should never have known her." "No, I've grown so much," said Una, with the languid drawl that was sufficiently familiar. "Ah, here's Amethyst." Amethyst, feeling as if her namesake jewels burnt into her neck and arms, gave a cold, gracious greeting. "You'll dine with us to-morrow, quite without ceremony?" said Lady Haredale. "We are in Eaton Square, you know, taking the girls out. I like it as much as they do." Mrs Fowler accepted the invitation, Miss Haredale and the rest of the party came up and were introduced, and then they all walked round together, looking at the people and the pictures. Sylvester, quite unable to keep at a distance, was glad to join Mr Carisbrooke and follow in their wake. Amethyst kept Una by her side, and Major Fowler walked with them. Sylvester caught echoes of his voice in familiar tones, which called up before him the white-robed girl in the sunny garden at Loseby, the mystery and the misery of that fatal afternoon, when the clouds had gathered round his fair ideal, and when his hateful share in her fate had been forced on him. He was noticed himself. His tall angular figure, marked features, and fine, restless eyes were striking, and suited the author of `Iris,' in the opinion of the literary set which was prepared to admire it, and he had his own little success on his hands, and had to reply to remarks and congratulations, which just then seemed a mere interruption to his eager watch. He caught the remarks too of the passing crowd, the wonder if Sir Richard Grattan was the accepted one, the questions as to who Major Fowler might be. He had not been seen before with the beauty. Then a laugh, and Charles Haredale was pointed out "as a reformed character," with his heiress, and Sylvester, startled, glanced at his companion. Was he really throwing his nice little niece into the arms of such a man as he must know young Haredale to be? Mr Oliver Carisbrooke walked calmly on, without apparently hearing the remark. He had large, and peculiarly bright eyes, which now followed Sylvester's, and were fixed on Amethyst's graceful head. Then he turned and looked at his companion. "She will not be satisfied. She shines in these rainbow tints, but they will not be enough for her," he said, rather sentimentally. Sylvester was startled, held for a moment by the curious gaze fixed on him, but he resented it. "If you are speaking of Miss Haredale," he said, "I do not see what a young lady can desire more. This sort of success is, I suppose, what women desire."