"Nephew," he said, "I wanted to meet you, and I didn't want to meet you. God bless my soul! you've got Muriel's eyes and mouth. Come and dine with me one night next week-any night: let me know. Good-bye, good-bye, Lady Angela. God bless you. Here, James, give me your arm down the steps, and whistle for my fellow to draw up. There he is, in the middle of the road, the blockhead." Lady Angela and I exchanged glances. I think that we should both have laughed but for the tears which we had seen in his eyes. "Poor old man," she murmured. "He is very nervous and very sensitive. I know that he dreaded seeing you, and yet he came this afternoon for no other purpose. Will you come into the drawing-room for a moment?" There was a certain stiffness in her manner, which was new to me. She remained standing, and her soft dark eyes were full of grave inquiry. "Mr. Ducaine," she said, "I passed you just now driving in a hansom with a person--of whom I disapprove. May I know--is it any secret why you were with her?" "It is no secret at all, Lady Angela," I answered. "I was sent to fetch her by your father." "By my father?" she repeated incredulously. "Do you mean that she is in this house?" "Certainly," I answered. "Your father is anxious, I believe, about Lord Blenavon. It occurred to me that he perhaps hoped to get news of him from Mrs. Smith-Lessing. At any rate he sent me for her." She seemed to me to be trembling a little. Her eyes sought mine almost pathetically. She was afraid of something. In the half-lights she appeared to me then so frail and girlish that a great wave of tenderness swept in upon me. I longed to take her into my arms--even to hold her hands and try to comfort her. Surely to do these things was the privilege of the man who loved her. And I loved her--loved her so that the pain and joy of it were woven together like live things in my heart, fighting always against the grim silence which lay like a seal upon my lips. But there were moments when I was sorely tried, and this was one of them. My eyes fell from hers. I dared not look her in the face. "Is this--all?" she asked falteringly. "It is all that I know," I answered. Then we were silent. With a little sigh she sank down in the corner of a high-backed easy chair. It seemed to me that she was thinner, that something of the delicate childishness of her appearance had passed away since her coming to London. I knew that she was in trouble, and I dared not ask her the cause of it. "I wish that we were going back to Braster to-morrow," she said suddenly. "Everything and everybody is different here. You seem to spend most of your time trying to avoid me, and--Colonel Ray, I do not know what is the matter with him, but he has become like a walking tragedy." "I have not tried to avoid you," I said. "I--" Then I stopped short. Her eyes were fixed upon mine and the lie stuck in my throat. I went on desperately.