One morning, when the girls were promenading on the West pier, they passed a lady whose face was familiar to Celia, though she could not remember for the moment where she had seen her before. The lady smiled, and looked as if she wished to stop and speak; but Celia, not being sure of her identity, passed on. Presently she recollected that she had met her at two or three social functions, and had been introduced to her by Lord Bexley at Richmond. By the band-stand they met her again, and this time she advanced towards Celia with outstretched hand. “You remember me, don’t you, Miss Franks?” she said with a fascinating smile. “Mrs. Neville Williams, you know. I had the pleasure of hearing you sing so charmingly at Richmond. It is quite delightful to meet somebody one knows here. Brighton in August is so full of trippers and rich Jews---- Oh, I beg your pardon,” as Celia reddened. “I quite forgot. You are staying with friends?” with a glance at the Wiltons. “Is your brother here also?” “No, he is in Scotland,” replied Celia, when she had introduced the girls. She wondered what made her ask after him, for to her knowledge the two had never met. “Do you know him?” she added as an afterthought. “Just slightly. I met him some years ago, before he made his reputation as an artist. I do not think he would remember me. He is married, I suppose?” She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her face. The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held out her hand. “Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave; I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;” and with another sweet smile she moved away. Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like about Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their seats. “I fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie positively detests her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.” “She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.” They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time. Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a dislike to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust of Mrs. Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.