A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes. Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead for mercy. “How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought you were never coming down. We’ve had breakfast ages ago; and Uncle Bexley and the others, all except Mr. Karne, are already out on the moors.” “How is it Mr. Karne has not gone?” Lady Marjorie asked wonderingly; for Herbert was an enthusiastic sportsman. “I don’t know. He is having a smoke in the lounge. P’raps he’s waiting to give you your present. I mustn’t tell you what it is--it’s a surprise, you know,--but I’m sure you will like it awf’lly. Uncle says it’s a very striking likeness of me.” “Tut-tut, Master Bobbie,” put in Janet, warningly. “You are letting the cat out of the bag;” and the boy promptly clapped his hand to his lips. Lady Marjorie found Karne deep in thought, watching with half-closed eyes the smoke as it curled upwards from his cigar. He rose at her approach, and having wished her many happy returns of the day, presented her with a beautifully painted pastel of her boy. Her face lit up with pleasure as she thanked him, for the gift had evidently occasioned him much thought. “I shall hang it up in my boudoir at Durlston,” she said, when she had expressed her admiration of the portrait, “next to the one you painted of Bobbie as a baby. Heigho, how time flies! I feel dreadfully old to-day--because it is my birthday, I suppose.” “One is never old whilst the heart is young,” he answered, with a swift glance from his deep eyes. He was just thinking how delightfully fresh and young she looked. Lady Marjorie met his eyes and blushed. Then she sat down at a small table and, unfolding a daily paper, glanced through the morning’s news. “Are you tired of the shooting?” she inquired presently. “I was quite surprised when Bobbie informed me that you were still indoors.” “I am afraid there will be no more shooting for me this year,” he replied regretfully, taking up a time-table which had recently occupied his attention. “I have just packed my traps previous to taking my departure. This morning’s post brought me two letters containing news which makes it necessary for me to go to Brighton immediately. I am more sorry than I can say to have to bring this enjoyable visit to such an abrupt termination.” Lady Marjorie’s face fell perceptibly. “Then you are going away!” she exclaimed in dismay. “You have not received bad news, I hope?” “Well, that depends on how one looks at it,” he answered, noting her crestfallen expression with a vague pang of self-reproach. “Celia’s visit to Woodruffe has cost her dear; it has probably been the means of making her lose her entire fortune.”