He turned round with a start and saw--he had no doubt whom he saw. The Marchesa’s tall slender figure stood before him--all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision. “I expect you’re going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you’ll use it. I’m going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way.” Roger was honest. “I--I’m staying at the Castle.” “I’ll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back,” said she. If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa’s practised art. “You’re--you’re awfully kind. I--I shall be delighted, of course.” The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key. “Will you please lock the padlock? It’s not--safe--to leave the gate open.” Her smile had come into the open--it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed. It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest had brought to the Marchesa--some small instalment of consolation for the treason of her friends. Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden--who had promptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not at all fit him to cope with the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless: was he not of the hated house? As an individual, however, he appeared to be comely and agreeable. They walked on side by side--not very quickly. The Marchesa’s eyes were now downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he could compare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silver coin. “I suppose you’ve been taught to think me a very rude and unneighbourly person, haven’t you, Mr Wilbraham? At least, I suppose you’re Mr Wilbraham? You don’t look old enough to be that learned Mr Stabb the Vicar told me about. Though he said Mr Stabb was absolutely delightful--how I should love to know him, if only----!” She broke off, sighing deeply. “Yes, my name’s Wilbraham. I’m Lynborough’s secretary. But--er--I don’t think anything of that sort about you. And--and I’ve never heard Lynborough say anything--er--unkind.” “Oh, Lord Lynborough!” She gave a charming little shrug, accompanied with what Roger, from his novel-reading, conceived to be a _moue_. “Of course I--I know that you--you think you’re right,” he stammered.