‘Well,’ Otho retorted, not very gaily; ‘I’ve smashed through all etiquette and ceremony, I suppose, in doing this, and brought my sister to see you, instead of waiting for you to come and see her. Eleanor, this is my friend, Miss Wynter.’ He led his sister a little forward as he spoke, so that she was fully displayed to Magdalen’s view; and Miss Wynter’s eyes encountered a sight she did not often see—a woman as beautiful as herself, and possessing, too, the powerful advantage of being six years younger than she was. Her plain dark riding dress suited to admiration the frank and hardy youthfulness of the wearer; for with all her softness of voice and outline, and for all the rounded grace of her form, there was a hardiness about Eleanor Askam which gave piquancy to her whole aspect. ‘It was very good of you, Otho, and exceedingly good of you, Miss Askam. I was absolutely unable to go out this afternoon, and I wanted so much to make your acquaintance.’ She extended her hand to Eleanor, and smiled her usual smile; one without any flavour of insincerity, or of sincerity either—a smile which repelled and displeased Eleanor, she knew not why. ‘Otho seemed extremely anxious about it,’ she said, coolly and gravely, ‘and I did what he wished me to do.’ Her voice rang out, clear and distinct—no muffled notes, and no hesitation or pretence of being delighted to pay the visit. Magdalen noted it all, and replied sweetly— ‘Yes; I am so glad you came. Take this easy-chair, and——Oh, Michael, I beg your pardon.’ She slurred over an almost inaudible introduction. ‘Miss Askam and I have met already,’ said Michael with composure. ‘I think I may safely claim the honour of having been before you in having made her acquaintance.’ ‘No—how?’ exclaimed Magdalen, arrested. ‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, looking at Michael as she seated herself. ‘I did not know who Mr.——’ ‘Langstroth,’ said Michael, speaking for himself. ‘Langstroth,’ repeated Eleanor, with a little bow, ‘was; nor he who I was.’ ‘I beg your pardon. I read your name on the label that was on your bag,’ he remarked; but he neither bowed nor smiled, though it would have been impossible to say that his manner was not polite. It was very much so, but not at all cordial. ‘Mr. Langstroth saved me from getting out a station too soon,’ she said, turning to Otho, in explanation. She could not help seeing that his moody countenance wore anything but one of its lighter expressions. He stood stiffly, his hat and whip in his hand, and a fleeting side-glance had shown her that he and the stranger (was he any relation, she wondered, to Otho’s great friend, Gilbert Langstroth, who was coming down for Christmas?) had exchanged a very slight and indifferent acknowledgment of each other’s presence.