The table was in an alcove; beside it a middle-aged man was waiting for them. He was tall and dark, and well set-up. A short, well-cut beard and mustache, grizzled like his hair, covered his mouth; his eyes were brown and alert, though time had made them dim and lines had gathered round them; his face was that of a man who lived generously, but with deliberation; his slow movements suggested tiredness or disappointment; his manner had a curious blending of indulgence and refinement. "This is Sir George Stringer; we were at Oxford together," Mr. Vincent said to Margaret. "I am delighted to meet you," Sir George said; "and it's very good of your father to put it in that way, for, as a matter of fact, he was five years my junior. I stayed up after taking my degree." Looking at him now, she saw that he was quite elderly, though in the distance she had taken him to be almost young. "I had not seen him for more than twenty years," he went on after they had settled themselves at the table, "till he walked into my office just now. I didn't even know that he was a married man till the other day, much less that he had a daughter." "But he knew where to find you?" "Of course he did," Sir George said. "I am a permanent official--a moss-grown thing that is never kicked aside unless it clamors, till the allotted number of years have passed and the younger generation comes knocking at the door." "What do you think he has done, Margey?" Mr. Vincent asked, noticing with satisfaction that she was quite unembarrassed by her new surroundings. The people at the different tables put a pleasant curiosity into her eyes, or provoked a little smile; now and then she looked up at him when some strange dish or attention of the waiters puzzled her, but she was neither awkward nor over-elated. "What has he done?" she asked. "We saw that the house on the hill had been let when we passed this morning--" "It's the most amazing thing that I should have hit upon it," Sir George said. "You have taken it!" she exclaimed, and clasped her hands with delight. It would be like a little bit of London going to Chidhurst, she thought, and her mother would like him, she was sure of it, this friend of her father's, who would have been difficult to describe, for, though he was old--to her young eyes--he was so agreeable. And he would be some one else for her father to talk with; they would discuss all manner of things concerning the world that she was discovering to be a wonderful place, though Chidhurst, with its beauty and its silence, held aloof from it--and she would listen to them; it would be like hearing a fairy story told at intervals. If only her father did not have to go to Australia--that threat was beginning to make itself distinct, though she tried to forget it.