She seemed to be thinking of something else and did not answer, and a puzzled look came over his face, as if a girl was a problem he did not know how to work out. He was an odd looking man, tall and pale, with a quantity of light hair pushed back from his high forehead. He had almost tender blue eyes; but there was something hard and firm about the mouth and square jaw that gave his face a look of strength. He was not a young man, but it was difficult to believe that he had ever been younger or would be older; he seemed to have been born for middle age, and the direction of people and affairs. The awkwardness of middle age that is not accustomed to womankind overtook him as he stood by Ethel. It was a little relief to him when dinner was announced. Aunt Anne turned to Walter, as he went up to her, with a little inclination of her head and a smile of dignified happiness. “It is so like a dream to be here with you, to be going down on your arm—dear children,” she whispered as they descended the narrow staircase. Looking back, Florence always felt that Aunt Anne had been the heroine of that party. She took the lead in conversation, the others waiting for her to speak, and no one dared to break up the group at table into _tête-à-tête_ talk. She was so bright and full of life and had so much to say that she carried all before her. Ethel Dunlop, young and pretty, felt piqued; usually Mr. Fisher was attentive to her, to-night he talked entirely to Mrs. Baines. That horrid Mr. Wimple, as she called him in her thoughts, had been quite attentive when she met him before, but now he too kept his eyes fixed on the old lady opposite; but for her host she would have felt neglected. And it was odd how well Aunt Anne managed to flirt with everybody. “Mrs. Baines has given me some useful hints about birds,” Mr. Fisher told Florence with a suspicion of amusement in his voice: “if I had been as wise formerly as she has made me to-night the white cockatoo might have been living still. We ought to have met years ago, Mrs. Baines,” he said, turning to her. “I think so too,” she said winningly. “It is such a pleasure to meet dear Walter’s and Florence’s friends,” she added, looking round the table and giving a strange little wink at the last word that made Mr. Wimple feel almost uncomfortable. “It is a privilege that I have looked forward to for years, but that living in the country has hitherto made impossible. Now that I am in London I hope I shall meet them all in turn.” Then she lowered her voice and went on to the editor: “I have heard so much of you, Mr. Fisher, if you will forgive me for saying so, though a great career like yours implies that all the world has heard of you.”