With a seraphic smile, Mrs. Harp got upon her feet and began to dance. . . . A few days later it was announced that, by the direction of the owner, Chancery, one of the most exquisite examples of a mediæval manor-house, had been thrown open to the public and could be visited until further notice any weekday between the hours of two and four o’clock. * * * * * The four Americans passed slowly round the broad, flagged walk and, turning a corner of the house, found themselves once more before the main doorway. Their tour of the apartments had lasted half an hour. One of the men took out a note-case, but the girl touched his arm and shook her head. “No, no,” she whispered. The man hesitated, pointing to the back of their guide. “Put it away,” said the girl shortly. Her squire obeyed, staring. Willoughby Bagot turned. The moment he always dreaded had arrived. He was about to be offered payment which he could not in decency refuse. He always gave his tips to the butler, and was thought a prize fool for his pains, but his patrons could not know that. “That is all that is shown, madam.” The two women inclined their heads. “Thank you very much,” said the elder pleasantly. “We’ve enjoyed it immensely.” Willoughby bowed. For a reason which they could never satisfactorily explain, the two male visitors raised their hats, and the party turned towards the car, which was glittering before the lodge, two furlongs away. Willoughby felt very grateful. . . . From a window he watched the quartette making their way along the avenue. He had liked them, and they had made his task easy. Besides, throughout the tour, he had been used as a gentleman. The girl, especially, seemed to have understood. He was faintly surprised that she had not added her thanks to those of her—her aunt, probably. Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back. The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her elderly companion proceeded more leisurely. Willoughby left the window and returned to the door. As she arrived, he opened this readily. “I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down in the picture-gallery.” Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed pleasedly, marking her as she went. She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk stockings . . . At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right. “I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder. Willoughby smiled.