"Father, dear, I wanted to tell you--I want to tell you everything; but you were so tired, and I thought it would be kinder to wait until I had spoken to the ladies." "The ladies. What ladies? Have they no name?" he asked, irritably. "Yes, dear, of course they have," returned the girl, gently. "Their name is Harford." Then he turned round a little quickly. "Harford. Oh, I daresay there are plenty of that name. I know Erpingham--Noel and I walked there one Sunday afternoon; but I do not remember the Red House." "No; it stands in a lane. You have to go through some white gates. They have not always been at Erpingham; they used to live in Surrey." Then she felt him start slightly. "I suppose you did not hear their Christian names?" he asked a little anxiously. "Oh yes, dad, I did. The ugly one--she was very nice, but she is terribly plain--was called Doreen; and the pale, fair one, like Queen Elizabeth, was Althea." Then it was evident that Mr. Ward was completely taken aback. "Doreen and Althea," he muttered. "It must be the same. With a singular coincidence! Waveney, my child, tell me one thing. Was the name of their house in Surrey Kitlands?" "I don't know, father; they never told me. But stay a moment: there was a picture in Miss Harford's sitting-room of an old Elizabethan house standing in a park, and under it was written Kitlands Park. I meant to tell Mollie about that." "It is the same--it must be the same," he returned, in a low voice. "The names are too uncommon. Yes, and it is true, Althea was a little like Queen Elizabeth. I would have given five years of my life that this had not happened. It is one of the little ironies of fate that my girl should have gone to them." "Oh, why, father?" asked Waveney, piteously; her father's look of bitterness filled her with dismay. Why was he so disturbed, so unlike himself? He did not even hear her question. He got up from the bench quickly and walked to the railings. Another steamer was passing. Mr. Ward looked after it with vague, unseeing eyes. Everard Ward was a proud man, in spite of his easy-going ways. He had had his ambitions, his aspirations, and yearnings. He had set his ideal high, and yet, for want of ballast, he had suffered shameful shipwreck. At the beginning of life he had had his good things--health, good looks, talents, and friends. Doors had opened to him, kindly hands had been held out to him, and one of them a woman's hand; but he had turned away in youthful caprice, and had chosen his own path. He had meant to have carved his own fortunes, to have painted pictures that would have made the name of Everard Ward famous; and he was only a drawing-master who painted little third-rate pot-boilers.