‘Extraordinary coincidences hardly surprise me. My life has been made up of them,’ said Lady Baker. ‘Well, Mr. Hossack, enchanted with his playing, I was foolish enough to introduce myself to this stranger, whom I found a man of the world, and, as I believed, a gentleman. He was on a walking tour through the south-west of England, he told us, and having heard of the Hillsleigh church and the Hillsleigh organ, had come out of his way to spend a day or two in the quiet village to which the church belongs. His manners were conciliating and agreeable. I asked him to breakfast at Mardenholme on the following day, promising to show him my gardens and to let him hear some fine music. He came, heard Janet play and sing after breakfast, and, at my request, stayed all day. I daresay you would think me a very foolish woman if I were to attempt to describe the influence this man soon began to exercise over me. I knew nothing of him except what he chose to tell, and that was rather hinted than told. But he contrived to make me believe that he was the son of a man of position and of large wealth; that his passion for music, and his somewhat Bohemian tendencies, had made a breach between him and his father; and that he was determined to live in freedom and independence upon a small income which he had inherited from his mother rather than sacrifice his inclinations to the prejudices of a tyrannical old man who wanted his son to make a figure in the House of Commons.’ ‘You made no attempt to discover who and what the man really was?’ ‘No. It seemed painful to him to speak of his father; and I respected his reserve. At the risk of being thought very foolish, I must confess that I was fascinated by the air of romance, and even mystery, which surrounded him; perhaps also somewhat fascinated by the man himself, whose very eccentricities were attractive. He was so different from other people; followed in no way the conventional model by which most men shape themselves; took so little trouble to make himself agreeable. Again, he entered my house only as a passing stranger. His genius, and not the importance and respectability of his connections, gave him the right of admission to my circle. If I tried to lure a butterfly into my drawing-room for the sake of its brilliant colouring, I should hardly trouble myself about the butterfly’s parentage or antecedents. So with Mr. Vandeleur. I accepted him for what he was—an amateur musician of exceptional powers. I daresay, if he had been a professional artist, I should have taken more pains to find out who he was.’ ‘I daresay,’ retorted Geoffrey bitterly, ‘if he had confessed to getting his living by his talents, you would have been doubtful as to the safety of your plate. But a fine gentleman, strolling through the country for his own pleasure, is a different order of being.’