Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered into his soul. The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk. The girl picked it up and turned to the man. “I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing this?” “I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows. “That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in the Blues.” “That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my home.” “This?” He nodded. “I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I live at the second lodge.” “How can you bear it?” said the girl. “Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.” “You speak as if it were a friend.” “It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.” The girl turned to the door. “You’re faithful,” she said. Willoughby shrugged his shoulders. “Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.” “And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand. “And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.” “I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest. I’m known as Worcester now.” “And I,” said the girl quickly, “am known as Spring. No ‘Miss,’ or anything. Just Spring.” Before he could answer, she was at the head of the stairs. As he opened the great front-door— “Good-bye, Spring,” said Willoughby. My lady flung him a bewitching smile. “Good-bye, Captain Bagot. D’you think you’ll know me next time?” “Yes,” said Willoughby. “Even if you have your hair down.” He watched her rejoin her companions, triumphantly waving her bag. “The Stacks had a daughter,” he murmured. “But she used to wear blue glasses because of her sight. Besides, you don’t find paid companions worth seven million pounds.” This was quite true. Moreover, his memory was at fault. Mr. and Mrs. Stack had died childless. The whole of their fortune had been left to a beloved niece.