"Mr. Jenkins," announced the pompous butler, showing in a tall young fellow of twenty. He had just the same sort of honest, good-natured face that had taken my fancy in Sam, and I guessed that this was his brother, the solicitor. He came up to Lady Jenkins. "How do you do, aunt?" he said, bending to kiss her. "Hearing of your soirée to-night, I thought I might come." "Why, my dear, you know you may come; you are always welcome. Which is it?" she added, looking up at him stupidly, "Dan, or Sam?" "It is Dan," he answered; and if ever I heard pain in a tone, I heard it in his. "You are Johnny Ludlow, I know!" he said, holding out his hand to me in the warmest manner, as he turned from his aunt. "Sam told me about you this morning." And we were friends from that moment. Dan brought himself to an anchor by Mina Knox. He was no beauty certainly, but he had a good face. Leaning over Mina's chair, he began whispering to her--and she whispered back again. Was there anything between them? It looked like it--at any rate, on his side--judging by his earnest expression and the loving looks that shot from his honest grey eyes. "Are you really French?" I asked of Madame St. Vincent, while standing by her side to drink some tea. "Really," she answered, smiling. "Why?" "Because you speak English exactly like ourselves." "I speak it better than I do French," she candidly said. "My mother was English, and her old maid-servant was English, and they educated me between them. It was my father who was French--and he died early." "Was your mother a native of Worcestershire?" "Oh dear, no: she came from Wales. What made you think of such a thing?" "Your accent is just like our Worcestershire accent. I am Worcestershire myself: and I could have thought you were." She shook her head. "Never was there in my life, Mr. Ludlow. Is that why you looked at me so much when you were here with Dr. Knox this morning?" "No: I looked at you because your face struck me as being familiar," I frankly said: "I thought I must have seen you somewhere before. Have I, I wonder?" "Very likely--if you have been much in the South of France," she answered: "at a place called Brétage." "But I have never been at Brétage." "Then I don't see how we can have met. I have lived there all my life. My father and mother died there: my poor husband died there. I only came away from it last year." "It must be my fancy, I suppose. One does see likenesses----" "Captain Collinson," shouted the butler again. A military-looking man, got up in the pink of fashion, loomed in with a lordly air; you'd have said the room belonged to him. At first he seemed all hair: bushy curls, bushy whiskers, a moustache, and a fine flowing beard, all purple black. Quite a flutter stirred the room: Captain Collinson was evidently somebody. After making his bow to Lady Jenkins, he distributed his favours generally, shaking hands with this person, talking with that. At last he turned our way.