“I am extremely sorry; but I really _must_. I see a man over there that I want to speak to particularly; and I shall lose sight of him if I don’t look sharp.” And taking off his hat with a comprehensive smile, he was gone. Yes, Madeline watched him under her parasol. He looked as well as any one--in fact, quite distinguished. She wondered vaguely who was his tailor. Then people began to discuss him, and she gathered by a word from Mrs. Veryphast, and another from Captain Vansittart, that the general opinion of Laurence Wynne was highly favourable. “Of fine old stock, but poor; but brains, and good race, ought to bring him something,” said Mrs. Leach. “An heiress!” suggested Mrs. Veryphast, with a giggle. “And now I propose that we do adjourn, and go to tea.” From a distance Laurence noted the party _en route_ to refreshments, Madeline and Lord Montycute bringing up the rear. She belonged to another world than his, there was no room in her life for him and Harry. As he had chafed in Lady Rachel’s chains, he had caught snatches of the conversation of the butterflies who fluttered round his wife. He heard of balls, river parties, rides, picnics. He was aware that Miss West’s society was in immense demand; he caught one laughing announcement “that she had four engagements for the next evening, and not a spare hour for the next three weeks.” Not long after that, as he and a friend were walking down to Parsons Green station, they were passed by a splendid carriage, which gave a glimpse of two frothy-looking parasols, and two tall hats. “There goes Miss West,” explained his companion, “the Australian heiress and beauty, with Lord Tony on the back seat. I hear it is quite settled, they are to be married in the autumn.” “Are they? Who is your authority?” “I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet every one allows that his daughter is charming.” CHAPTER XXXIV. MR. WYNNE IS A WIDOWER. The first opportunity that Madeline could find she ventured a visit to the Holts. It was a lovely June morning as she walked up to the front entrance of the sequestered Farm. She found Harry--_her_ Harry, a pretty little fellow with fair soft hair and surprised dark eyes, sitting alone upon the doorstep, and nursing a pointer pup. It was useless for her to ask in her most winning manner-- “Harry dear, don’t you know me? Darling, I am your own mother; your own mummy!” Harry simply frowned and shook his curls, and clutched the puppy tightly in his clasp as if he meant to throttle it. Presently Mrs. Holt came upon the scene, with turned-up sleeves, and stout bare arms, fresh from the dairy. She was exceedingly civil, and exceedingly cool; invited Miss West into the little parlour, dusted a chair for her, and did her best to soften the rigidity and hauteur of little Harry’s aspect.