“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he accosted her. “I did not know you were coming here to-night. Rachel told me she lunched with you to-day, and you were alone in your glory. Whom did you come with?” And he looked as if he was expecting to see some of the party. “I came in very good company,” she replied. “But, pray, who made _you_ my father confessor?” “I only wish I was! Are you going on to supper at the Candy-tufts? If so, we shall meet again.” “No, I’m going home this moment.” “How virtuous! Well, you’ll be in the Row to-morrow--riding--at the usual hour?” “I’m not sure.” “I’ll look out for you about ten. Good night.” And he hurried off. “Who is that?” inquired Laurence. “Oh, a great friend of papa’s--Lord Anthony Foster.” “Indeed! I shouldn’t have thought they had many tastes in common.” “Well, at any rate they have _one_,” she answered, with a flippant laugh. “Yes, dense as I am, I think I can guess it!” Mr. Wynne was also recognized by several of his own friends. Why is it that there is always some one to see you when you wish to escape notice, and, when you particularly desire to court observation, there is never any one forthcoming? No; and yet if you lose a front tooth, and, with a gaping chasm in your neat front row, are _en route_ to the dentist, you are bound to encounter half your acquaintances. Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were standing on the steps as their friend passed, and wished him a cheerful good night. He did not accompany Madeline; she would not permit it. She must get home at once, before her father returned, she whispered; “and supposing she were seen driving up, escorted by a gentleman, a stranger!” “All right, all right, Maddie,” wringing her hand. “But, mind you, it is the last time. Remember, to-morrow! Send me a wire, and I shall come and fetch you.” Then, with a gesture of farewell, he stepped back, and she was quickly whirled away. Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were still endeavouring to light up, and had not yet started to walk; the night was fine and frosty, and they had not far to go. “I’m coming your way. Hold on a minute till I get out my cigar-case,” said their late host. And soon the trio were facing homewards, discussing the piece, the actresses, the audience; but not a word dropped from either gentleman’s lips with regard to Wynne’s mysterious lady friend, though, like the celebrated parrot, they thought the more. Wynne was a reserved sort of chap. For nearly a year he had dropped out of their ken. Jessop alone was his confidential friend. None ever dreamt of poking their noses into his affairs, as a caustic reply, or a painful snub was sure to be the reward of the experiment. He was of good family--that they knew; and latterly some of his influential relations had been looking him up. (Nothing succeeds like success, and the brilliant author of society skits was now eagerly claimed by his connections.)