Mr. Desmond wondered to behold this exploded style of head-gear, and wondered still more at the manner of the young person, who started and blushed at sight of him, and then came towards him, with a certain hesitation and timidity that were not unpleasing. “Mr. Desmond, I think?” she faltered. “Yes, my name is Desmond.” “Ah,” murmured the damsel in curl-papers, somewhat regretfully, “I see you have quite forgotten me.” “Forgotten you! I don’t think that could have been possible, if I had ever had the honour to know you, Miss St. Albans,” replied the editor, smiling very kindly; for there was something in the girl’s candid and yet modest demeanour which pleased this _blasé habitué_ of West-end drawing-rooms. “_If_ you had ever known me!” cried the young lady, reproachfully. “Then you have quite forgotten Henley, and our boat, and Champion, the Scotch terrier, and----” “Not at all. I have a lively recollection of Henley and of Champion; but I cannot recall the name of St. Albans.” “Ah, no, I forgot that the name is strange to you. But I must be very much altered since those happy days, or you would scarcely have forgotten Lucy.” “Lucy--Lucy Alford!” “Yes, Mr. Desmond. The Lucy to whom you used to be so kind.” “Was I kind? You are very good to think so. And you are really Miss Alford, my dear old tutor’s daughter? Let me shake hands in token of our renewed friendship. Yes, I have a vague recollection of a very nice little girl, who had the prettiest blue eyes, and wore the cleanest holland pinafores in Christendom; and I am quite charmed to behold the same young lady, now she has outgrown the pinafores, but not the eyes.” “You have only a vague recollection of me; yet I knew you directly you stepped out of the cab,” said the girl, in a tone of disappointment. “Yes, but you are more changed than I, Miss Alford. You must consider what a gulf there is between seven and nineteen; while there is not much outward difference between twenty-three and thirty-five. Thirty-five is only so much dustier, and grayer, and shabbier; like a garment that has been worn and faded by continued hard wear.” “Indeed you do not look worn and faded,” said the tutor’s daughter, with an involuntary glance at the hot-house flower in the fashionable editor’s faultless overcoat. “I received a letter from your father this morning, Miss Alford; and I thought my best course would be to answer it in person. I am all the more happy to attend to my old friend’s request because your interests are involved in it.” Lucy blushed again--not the blush of self-consciousness or coquetry, but the honest red of innocent gratitude and impulsive feeling. “It was very, very kind of you to come,” she said. “Papa has told me how valuable your time is, and what a high position you hold on the press. He had no idea that you would respond so quickly to his appeal; and--and I am sure I ought to apologize for receiving you in these horrible curl-papers. They are for Pauline.”