“Well, it is never too late to mend,” answered Randolph, smiling. “Monica, may I present to you Lady Beatrice Wentworth, whom I have had the honour of knowing intimately since the days of our early acquaintance, when she wore pinafores and pigtails. Lord Haddon, I think I need not introduce again. You have met before.” The little flush deepened in Monica’s face. She had fancied the face of the brother was not totally unfamiliar to her; but she did not remember until this moment where or when she could possibly have seen him. “Oh, Haddon has been raving about Lady Monica ever since the auspicious day when he saw her,” cried Beatrice, gaily. “I hope your father is quite recovered now?” she added, with a touch of quick sympathy, “since you were able to leave him so soon.” “I think he is much better, thank you,” answered Monica, quietly; “but he was still very ill when I left him.” “And, Randolph, you have not explained away your guilt yet. Why have you been all this time without letting us see you or your wife? I call it shameful!” “My wife has been very unwell herself ever since we came up,” answered Randolph. “She has not been fit to see anybody.” “You should have made an exception in my favour,” persisted Beatrice, bringing her horse alongside of Monica’s, and walking on with her. “You see, I have known Randolph so long, he seems almost like a brother. I feel defrauded when he does not behave himself as such. We must be great friends, Lady Monica, for his sake. He has told us all about you and your delightful Cornish home. I suppose you know all about us, too, and what near neighbours we are—near for London, at least.” But Monica had never heard the name of the girl beside her. She knew nothing of her husband’s friends, never having taken the least interest in subjects foreign to all her past associations. She hinted something of the kind in a gently indifferent way, that was sincere, without being in the least discourteous. She was wondering why it was that her husband, who could value his own friends and appreciate their good-will, was so strenuously set against receiving the only acquaintance she possessed in this vast city. Nevertheless, when, upon a forenoon two days later, at an hour she knew her husband was away, Conrad presented himself in her boudoir, following the man who had brought his card without waiting to be invited, Monica was conscious of a feeling of distinct displeasure and distrust. She knew very little of the ways of the world, but she felt that he had no right to be there, forcing himself upon her in her private room, when her husband would hardly speak to him or receive him, and that he merited instant dismissal.