“I can answer you definitely, that she did not,” replied Sir Ralph. “You have an altogether wrong impression of that lady--in my judgment.” “_Your_ judgment!” said Michael scornfully, as he ushered him out of the room. CHAPTER XI. LADY MOYA WAS CURIOUSLY UNLIKE HERSELF There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya came flying breathlessly through the barrier. “Oh, I _am_ so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.” Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage and jumped in himself as the train moved. “There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely. “We could have gone to church.” “What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of church!” “Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought everything?” She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours. “I have brought nothing,” he said frankly. “But how can you sketch?” “I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a day to waste.” She looked up at him and laughed. “You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what part of the country are we going?” “I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.” “Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton to-day.” She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss. She looked at her companion approvingly. “You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you, before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less and less like an artist every day.” He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced, not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought discredit to the fair State of Virginia. “Do you like those things?” she asked. “These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”