"A week ago! And have you been ever since getting here?" "No; I did it by degrees. First, I went down to the Maplesons', and spent two days there--very slow, indeed; then I got on to the Blouts', and found it much slower there; finally, I drove to Talbot Lowry's night before last, and stayed there until this evening. You know he lives only three miles from here." "He is at home now, then?" "Yes. He always _is_ at home, I notice, when--you are here!" "No!" says Cecil, with a little faint laugh. "You don't say so! what a remarkable coincidence!" "An annual coincidence. But you don't ask me who it was I saw in London. Guess." "The Christy Minstrels, without doubt. They never perform out of London, so I suppose are the only people in it now." "Wrong. There was one other person--Sir Penthony Stafford!" "Really!" says Cecil, coloring warmly, and sitting in a more upright position. "He has returned, then? I thought he was in Egypt." "So he was, but he has come back, looking uncommon well, too--as brown as a berry. To my thinking, as good a fellow to look at as there is in England, and a capital fellow all round into the bargain!" "Dear me!" says Cecil. "What a loss Egypt has sustained! And what a partisan you have become! May I ask," suppressing a pretended yawn behind her perfumed fan, "where your _rara avis_ is at present hiding?" "I asked him," says Mr. Potts, "but he rather evaded the question." * * * * * "And is _that_ your Mr. Potts?" asks Molly, finding herself close to Tedcastle, speaking with heavy and suspicious emphasis. "Yes," Tedcastle admits, coloring slightly as he remembers the glowing terms in which he has described his friend. "Don't you--eh, don't you like him?" "Oh! like him? I cannot answer that yet; but," laughing, "I certainly don't admire him." And indeed Mr. Potts's beauty is not of the sort to call forth raptures at first sight. "I have seen many different shades of red in people's hair," says Molly, "but I have never seen it rosy until now. Is it dyed? It is the most curious thing I ever looked at." As indeed it is. When introduced to poor Potts, when covering him with a first dispassionate glance, one thinks not of his pale gray orbs, his large good-humored mouth, his freckles, or his enormous nose, but only of his hair. Molly is struck by it at once. "He is a right good fellow," says Luttrell, rather indignantly, being scarcely in the mood to laugh at Molly's sarcasms. "He may be," is her calm reply, "but if I were he, rather than go through life with that complexion and that unhappy head, I would commit suicide."