“Well, he’s a greater fool than he looks, if he does not!” answered Randolph. “Does he expect a girl like Beatrice Wentworth to be enslaved by his charms in the course of a few hours? The thing’s a manifest absurdity!” “Possibly; but that woman can make a man think anything.” Randolph looked at his friend with some attention. “You seem to have formed very exhaustive conclusions about Lady Beatrice Wentworth.” It almost seemed as if Tom coloured a little as he turned impatiently away. Next day Beatrice seemed to have regained her usual even flow of spirits. She met Tom at breakfast as she would meet any guest under the same roof, and neither courted nor avoided him in any way. He seemed to take his cue from her; but his face still wore the thin-lipped cynical expression that betrayed a certain amount of subdued irritation. However, sport was the all-prevailing topic of the hour, and as soon as breakfast was concluded, the men departed, with the dogs and keepers in their wake. “What would you like to do, Beatrice?” asked Monica when the sportsmen had disappeared. “We have the whole day before us.” “Like to do? Why, everything must be delightful in this lovely out-of-the-world place. Monica, no wonder you are just yourself—not one bit like any one else—brought up here with only the sea, and the clouds, and the sunshine for companions and playmates. I used to look at you in a sort of wonder, but I understand it all now. You ought always to live at Trevlyn—never anywhere else. What should I like to do? Why, anything. Suppose we ride. I should love to gallop along the cliffs with you. I want to see the queer little church Haddon described to me, where you were married, and the picturesque little town where—where Randolph and he put up on the eve of that day. I want to see everything that belongs to your past life, Monica. It interests me more than I can express.” Monica smiled in her tranquil fashion. “Very well; you shall gratify your wish. I will order the horses at once. If we go to St. Maws, I ought to go and see Aunt Elizabeth—Mrs. Pendrill that is, aunt to Arthur, and to Tom Pendrill and his brother. She is sure to want us to stay to luncheon with her if we do. She will be all alone; Tom here, and Raymond on his rounds. Would you dislike that, Beatrice? She is a sweet old lady, and seems more a part of my past life than anything else I can show you, though I could not perhaps explain why.” A curious light shone in Beatrice’s eyes. “Dislike it! I should like it above everything. I love old ladies. They are so much more interesting than young ones, I often wish I were old myself—not middle-aged, you know, but really old, _very_ old, with lovely white hair, and a waxen face all over tiny wrinkles, like my own grandmother—the most beautiful woman without exception that I ever saw. Yes, Monica, let us do that. It will be delightful. Why did you never mention the Pendrills to me before?”