"Drive sharply to 180, Gower Street," were his directions to the driver as he swung himself into a passing hansom, and leant forward on the closed doors, watching the traffic with listless glances, which only saw a woman's dark eyes, set in a white face. "No, sir, I couldn't tell you Mrs. Stanforth's address," was the uncompromising reply to his question, and Mrs. Milton's inflexible countenance, and flat, rigid form were as uncompromising as her speech; "she bid me say to anyone enquiring, that she was gone in the country for a time, and I can only answer the same to you, as I answers to the rest. Letters and people--they come on here from Barford Road, and I says the same to all of 'em." Rupert's creed as a gentleman forbade his pressing for the address of a woman who wished to keep herself hidden, but with all the hatred of his sex for mysteries, he moved impatiently away, speculating grimly on the eccentricities of women. Why, when she had a house of her own, did Margaret have her visitors and letters sent to Gower Street for information, or re-addressing respectively? What object was being served by all this mysterious behaviour? And why was she sometimes so apparently frank with him, at other times so strangely secret? True, that her very uncertainty was part of her charm; but, without swerving in his unshakable loyalty to her, he felt himself occasionally wishing that Margaret had some of the transparent candour of his little cousin, Cicely Redesdale. Cicely was incapable of dark secrets, or hidden, mysterious actions; she and Baba were children together, and one was scarcely more innocent and crystal pure than the other--which reflections brought him by easy stages to his cousin's estates, and his own trusteeship; and the memory of a paper needing Cicely's signature, made him retrace his steps to his own chambers, and thence to Eaton Square, where he found Cicely and her small daughter enjoying the delights of tea together, in the bright nursery at the top of the house. "Jane has got a sick mother," Cicely explained dolefully; "Jane was imperatively needed at home, at an hour's notice--and behold me, head nurse and nursery-maid rolled into one, and Baba in the seventh heaven of bliss. If you want any tea, Rupert, you must have it here--hot buttered toast and all. Dawson won't approve, but I am tired of trying to live up to him." Dawson was the butler, a magnificent personage who had only condescended to anything more insignificant than a ducal mansion, in consideration of Mr. Redesdale's generosity in the matter of wages; and Dawson regarded any departure from the orthodox, with disapproving eyes. "You will never succeed in reaching Dawson's criterion of correctness," Rupert laughed; "meanwhile, nursery tea is much jollier than the drawing-room meal. We can eat double as much, and we can spread our own jam."