"Thank you," yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. "May I not know to whom I am indebted for so much kindness?" "I dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by," says Cecil, demurely, making a movement as though to leave him. "When you are dressed you shall be formally presented." "At least," he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, "do me one more service before you go. If you know me so well, perhaps you can tell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?" "Several. Teddy Luttrell for one." "Indeed! And----" "The Darleys. You know them?" "Little woman,--dolly,--bizarre in manner and dress?" "A most accurate description. And there is another friend,--one who ought to be your dearest: I allude to Lady Stafford." "Lady Stafford!" "Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news." "Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks Sir Penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "I had no idea she was here. I---- Is she a friend of yours?" "The dearest friend I have. I know no one," declares her ladyship, fervently, "I love so fondly." "Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with her this moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has rare taste in friends." "You speak disparagingly. Has she a fault?" "The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would make her a 'joy forever.'" "Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatly liked. Nay, she has been _loved_. Perhaps when you come to know her a little better (I do not conceal from you that I have heard something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her. Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'" "Yes,"--with a light laugh,--"But 'ugliness goes to the bone.'" "That is the retort discourteous. I see it is time wasted to plead my friend's cause. Although, perhaps,"--reproachfully,--"not blessed with actual beauty, still----" "No, there's _not_ much beauty about her," says Sir Penthony, with something akin to a groan. Then, "I beg your pardon," he murmurs; "pray excuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?" He stands aside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "And you won't tell me your name?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her. "Make haste with your dressing; you shall know then," glancing back at him, with a bewitching smile. "Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to less advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me." "A very fair beginning," says Cecil, as she slips away. "Now I must be firm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought." CHAPTER XV. "If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning." --_Miles Standish._