"I am glad you're pleased about the Holmans, little woman." "Of course I am, and aren't you. Don't you like to make people happy?" Again Lord Grayleigh moved restlessly. "Have you any other notes for this book?" he said. "Of course I have. There's the one who wants to marry the other one. I'm under a vow not to mention names, but they want to marry _so_ badly, and they will in double quick time if there's gold in the mine. Will you put in your note-book 'Gold to be kept for the one who wants to marry the other,' will you, Lord Grayleigh?" "I have entered it," said Lord Grayleigh, suppressing a smile. "And mother, of course," continued Sibyl, "wants lots of money, and there's my nurse, her eyes are failing, she would like enough gold to keep her from mending stockings or doing any more fine darning, and I'd like Watson to have some. Do you know, Lord Grayleigh, that Watson is engaged to be married? He is really, truly." "I am afraid, Sibyl, I do not know who Watson is." "Don't you? How funny; he is our footman. I'm awfully fond of him. He is full of the best impulses, is Watson, and he is engaged to a very nice girl in the cookery line. Don't you think it's very sensible of Watson to engage himself to a girl in the cookery line?" "I think it is thoroughly sensible, but now I must really go." "But you won't forget all the messages? You have put them all down in your note-book. You won't forget any of the people who want gold out of the Lombard Deeps?" "No, I'll be certain to remember every single one of them." "Then that's all right, and you'll come to darling mother's bazaar?" "I'll come." "I am so glad. You do make me happy. I like big-wigs awfully." CHAPTER XVIII. A few days before the bazaar Lady Helen Douglas arrived at Silverbel. She had returned from Scotland on purpose. A letter from Lord Grayleigh induced her to do so. He wrote to Lady Helen immediately after seeing Sibyl. "I don't like the child's look," he wrote; "I have not the least idea what the doctors have said of her, but when I spoke on the subject to her mother, she shirked it. There is not the least doubt that Mrs. Ogilvie can never see a quarter of an inch beyond her own selfish fancies. It strikes me very forcibly that the child is in a precarious state. I can never forgive myself, for she met with the accident on the pony I gave her. She likes you; go to her if you can." It so happened that by the very same post there had come an urgent appeal from Mrs. Ogilvie. "If you cannot come to the bazaar," she wrote to Lady Helen, "it will be a failure. Come you must. Your presence is essential, because you are pretty and well born, and you will also act as a lure to another person who can help me in various ways. I, of course, allude to our mutual friend, Jim Rochester."