The little lady, as the Squire affectionately termed her, arrived at Pomfret Court a few days later. She brought with her many wonderful frocks, a habit (if the breeches and apron of the modern Amazon may be so called), and the shoes fashioned by the “One and Only” in Paris. Thus armed, cap-à-pie, she sparkled into view. Urban she was, and urbane. Her delight in the quiet countryside had no taint of insincerity. She was tired of Mayfair and said so unaffectedly. And she met Lionel, for the first time, as he came across the lawn after a ride through the Forest. Instantly she decided that he surpassed expectation. His tall, slender figure lent itself admirably to riding kit; his cheeks were flushed by exercise; he looked, every inch of him, what he was—the son of an ancient house, and a gallant soldier. Nor was it possible to suspect from his manner any prejudice, instinctive or otherwise. Lady Margot was his guest. Indeed, the mere fact that he did feel a certain prejudice against “dashers” who had “affairs” made him the more courteous and pleasant outwardly. At tea Lionel said little. He listened attentively to Lady Margot’s London gossip, nicely spiced to the Squire’s taste. She chattered to Sir Geoffrey, but at his son. Lionel expected some “swanking” from a young lady whose portrait appeared constantly in the illustrated papers. But Lady Margot didn’t “swank.” Her methods of attracting attention were more subtle. She imposed herself as a personage indirectly. Lady Pomfret may have divined this, because her methods were not dissimilar. Lionel admitted frankly to himself that the visitor had charm. The word “chic” had been used so often by reporters that Lionel tried to find a better label, and failed with “mondaine.” He knew that she drove her own motor and could ride hard to hounds. Beaumanoir Chase, where she had been brought up, was in the Belvoir country. The Squire, you may be sure, wanted first-hand information about that stately pile. Lady Margot was outspoken about her kinsman, now in possession of her former home. “Poor Beau ought to have married me. He wished it, and so did I, till I noticed that he was prematurely bald, a long three-storied head, full of Victorian furniture. He is very hard up, and several thousands ought to be spent upon the house alone. Unhappily, father and he hated each other.” From her soft voice and candid glances you might infer that here was the most guileless creature in the world. She continued gently, as she nibbled at a sandwich: “It is heart-breaking to go there and see things falling to pieces.” “Horrible!” the Squire agreed. “Your fences and gates are in apple-pie order.” She smiled at the Squire, who beamed back at her. “You notice these trifles, my dear?” His tone was almost paternal. “At once,” she answered crisply. Then she turned to Lady Pomfret. That shrewd observer detected a subtle change in her manner, a caressing deference slightly feline.