For a moment, it seemed, none spoke or moved; all faces turned towards the slender, elegant figure on the threshold, where stood Sir John, his most exquisite self. Thus he entered amid a strange hush, a silence broken only by the tap of his high-heeled shoes; and, aware of the many staring eyes, saw only those of her who stood drawn to her noble height, in all the dignity of laces and brocade; and, very conscious of the latent hostility all about him, advanced down the long room with a leisured ease, apparently totally unconscious of all save my lady and his serene and placid self. Haughty and unbending she stood to meet him, with no smile of greeting, no hand to welcome him. Thus his bow was of the deepest and his voice of the gentlest when he spoke. “My Lady Barrasdaile, this is a moment I have oft dreamed on, and, by my soul, madam, now that I see you at last, your face and form remind me powerfully of one whom I found—and have lost awhile! My lady, behold your most faithful, obedient, grateful servant!” For a long moment she viewed him with a vague disquiet, then, as she thus hesitated, the doors were thrown wide to admit the diminutive Duchess, very dignified as became her rank, and mounted upon a pair of extremely high-heeled shoes; at whose advent went up a murmur of polite salutation, backs were dutifully bent, handkerchiefs fluttered, and gowns billowed to elaborate curtsys; in the midst of which my lady spoke: “Dear aunt, you come pat to the occasion as usual! Permit me to present to you Sir John Dering. Sir John, the Duchess of Connington!” A moment of utter stillness—a dramatic moment wherein noble gentlemen gazed dumbly expectant and fair ladies thrilled and palpitated in delightful suspense while the Duchess, that small yet potent arbiter, scrutinised Sir John in silent appraisement; at last, smiling, she reached forth her hand. “Welcome to town, Sir John!” said she as he bowed low above her very small fingers. Gentlemen breathed again, ladies fanned themselves and chattered; the fiat had gone forth: Her Grace of Connington had received the “dreadful creature,” who consequently could not be too dreadful for Mayfair. Thus Sir John was duly presented to ladies who blushed and simpered, drooped tremulous lashes, languished soulfully or frowned austerely according to which best became her particular type of beauty; and to gentlemen who bowed and protested themselves his devoted, humble, etc., until he found himself confronted by one, a fierce-eyed gentleman with one arm in a sling, this, who surveyed him from head to foot with an expression of arrogant contempt. “Sir John Dering, is it,” he demanded, “or Mr. Derwent—which?” “You may have your choice, sir,” answered Sir John pleasantly, “for each of ’em is equally at your service the moment you feel yourself sufficiently recovered, my lord!” And Sir John made to pass on, but Lord Sayle interposed, his air more threatening than ever. Quoth he: