“This is a piece of good fortune that I hardly hoped for,” said Hardyman, his cool, quiet, dreary way of speaking quickened as usual, in Isabel’s presence. “I only got back from France this morning, and I called on Lady Lydiard in the hope of seeing you. She was not at home--and you were in the country--and the servants didn’t know the address. I could get nothing out of them, except that you were on a visit to a relation.” He looked at Moody while he was speaking. “Haven’t I seen you before?” he said, carelessly. “Yes; at Lady Lydiard’s. You’re her steward, are you not? How d’ye do?” Moody, with his eyes on the ground, answered silently by a bow. Hardyman, perfectly indifferent whether Lady Lydiard’s steward spoke or not, turned on his saddle and looked admiringly at Isabel. “I begin to think I am a lucky man at last,” he went on with a smile. “I was jogging along to my farm, and despairing of ever seeing Miss Isabel again--and Miss Isabel herself meets me at the roadside! I wonder whether you are as glad to see me as I am to see you? You won’t tell me--eh? May I ask you something else? Are you staying in our neighborhood?” There was no alternative before Isabel but to answer this last question. Hardyman had met her out walking, and had no doubt drawn the inevitable inference--although he was too polite to say so in plain words. “Yes, sir,” she answered, shyly, “I am staying in this neighborhood.” “And who is your relation?” Hardyman proceeded, in his easy, matter-of-course way. “Lady Lydiard told me, when I had the pleasure of meeting you at her house, that you had an aunt living in the country. I have a good memory, Miss Isabel, for anything that I hear about You! It’s your aunt, isn’t it? Yes? I know everybody about hew. What is your aunt’s name?” Isabel, still resting her hand on Robert’s arm, felt it tremble a little as Hardyman made this last inquiry. If she had been speaking to one of her equals she would have known how to dispose of the question without directly answering it. But what could she say to the magnificent gentleman on the stately horse? He had only to send his servant into the village to ask who the young lady from London was staying with, and the answer, in a dozen mouths at least, would direct him to her aunt. She cast one appealing look at Moody and pronounced the distinguished name of Miss Pink. “Miss Pink?” Hardyman repeated. “Surely I know Miss Pink?” (He had not the faintest remembrances of her.) “Where did I meet her last?” (He ran over in his memory the different local festivals at which strangers had been introduced to him.) “Was it at the archery meeting? or at the grammar-school when the prizes were given? No? It must have been at the flower show, then, surely?” It _had_ been at the flower show. Isabel had heard it from Miss Pink fifty times at least, and was obliged to admit it now.