"What are you looking at?" Mrs. Beauclerc suddenly asked in sharp tones. "You never pay attention to me, Georgina." "I thought--I thought--" and though the answer was given with hesitation, she spoke the straightforward truth--"I thought I saw Frederick St. John. Some one was there, but he has turned away again, whoever it was. What do you want to say, mamma?" "Mrs. St. John and Anne partly promised to come in and dine with us, _sans cérémonie_, this evening. I want you to go and ask them whether they are really coming." She stepped gaily over the threshold into the room, all her inertness gone. The short secluded walk through the private grounds would be charming enough on that warm autumn day; but had it been one of stones and brambles, Georgina had deemed it Eden, with the prospect of _his_ presence at the end of it. She halted for a moment to ask a question; to ask it indifferently, as if it were of no moment to her, and she tossed her handkerchief carelessly about as she spoke it. "Is Frederick to come with them?" "Dear me, Georgina! _Is_ he to come! He can come if he likes." Absorbed in her music, Sarah Beauclerc had heard nothing of this. Georgina came in again with her bonnet on. "Sarah, I am going up to Castle Wafer. Will you come?" The light of assent shone all too eagerly for a moment in Sarah's eyes; but she recollected her resolution--to _forget_--and declined. "Not this morning." "Very well," said Georgina. "Don't say I didn't ask you. You said so once before, if you remember, Sarah, and a great passion you were in." Sarah Beauclerc's lip curled. "I don't think I was ever in a passion in my life. It is only the uncontrolled, the ill-regulated, who so forget themselves." "I would rather go into a good hearty passion and get it over, than be cold as an icicle. What a passion I once put Fred St. John into!" added Georgina, half losing herself in the remembrance. "_He_ can be passionate, if you like!" "I don't believe it." "_Dis_-believe it, then," equably returned Georgina. "I have seen him in more rages than one. It's not a thing to forget, I can tell you. He is sweet-tempered in ordinary life; ay, very; but on rare occasions he can be roused. Ask Mrs. St. John; ask Anne." She stepped out from the window, nodding to Mrs. Beauclerc, who was now at a distance bending over her favourite flowerbed, and pursued her walk. Suddenly a butterfly crossed her path; she was then getting near to Castle Wafer. It was one of those beautiful insects, its wings purple and gold; and Georgina, no better than a butterfly herself and variable as one, began to give chase to it. In turning suddenly the corner of a hedge of variegated evergreens, she came upon a stranger.