Never slackening it until he reached the house of Greatorex and Greatorex; and there he very nearly knocked down a little girl who had just come out of the private entrance. Roland turned to apologise; but the words died on his lips, and he stood like one suddenly struck dumb, staring in silence. In the pretty young lady, one of two who were talking together in the passage, and looked round at the commotion, Roland thought he recognised an old friend, now the wife of his cousin William Yorke. He bounded in and seized her hands. "You are Constance Channing?" "No," replied the young lady, with wondering eyes, "I am Annabel." Mr. Roland Yorke's first movement was to take the sweet face between his hands, and kiss it tenderly. Struggling, blushing, almost weeping, the young lady drew back against the wall. "How dare you?" she demanded in bitter resentment. "Are you out of your mind, sir?" "Good gracious, Annabel, don't you know me? I am your old playfellow, Roland Yorke." "Does that give you any right to insult me? I might have known it was no one else," she added in the moment's anger. "Why, Annabel, it was only done in great joy. I had used to kiss you, you remember: you were but a little mite then, and I was a big tease. Oh, I am so glad to see you! I'd rather have met you than all the world. You can't be angry with me. Shake hands and be friends." To remain long at variance with Roland was one of the impossibilities of social life. He possessed himself of Annabel Channing's hand and nearly shook it off. What with his hearty words, and what (may it be confessed, even of Annabel) with the flattery of his praises and general admiration, Annabel's smiles broke forth amidst her blushes. Roland's eyes looked as if they would devour her. "I say, I never saw anybody so pretty in all my life. It is the nicest face; just what Constance's used to be. I thought it was Constance, you know. Was she not daft, though, to go and take up again with that miserable William Yorke?" Standing by, having looked on with a smile of grand pity mingled with amusement, was a lady in the most fashionable attire, the amount of hair on her head something marvellous to look at. "I should have known Roland Yorke anywhere," she said, holding out her hand. "Why, if I don't believe it's one of the Joliffes!" "Hush, Roland," said Annabel, hastening to stop his freedom, and the tone proved that she had nearly forgiven him on her own score. "This is Mrs. Bede Greatorex." "Formerly Louisa Joliffe," put in that lady. "Now do you know me?" "Well, I never met with such a strange thing," cried Roland. "That makes three--four--of the old Helstonleigh people I have met today. Hurst, Mrs. J., and now you two. I think there must be magic in it." "You must come and see me soon, Roland," said Mrs. Greatorex as she went out. Miss Channing waited for the little girl, Jane Greatorex, who had run in her wilful manner into her uncle Bede's office. Roland offered to fetch her.