"I fancy you know the guv'nor--eh?" he exclaimed, chaffing her. "Do you? Tell me. Perhaps you've met him somewhere? He's at Upper Brook Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there." "No, Mr Remington, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your father," was her rather strained response. "But all the world has heard of him. One sees his picture in the papers very often. I only read yesterday his scathing criticism in the House of Commons on the Navy estimates, and his serious warning regarding the new super-dreadnought-- which is building on the Clyde--the vessel which is to be the most powerful battleship afloat." "You know more than I do, Miss Tempest," he laughed. "I never read the guv'nor's speeches. I heard too much about ships at home, before I went up to Cambridge." "I suppose so," she laughed, and then, as though uneasy and anxious to get away, she added: "Look! Your friend is coming back with Maud. We must go," and she rose, a tall, graceful figure in neat black. "No. Don't go yet," he urged, still remaining seated. "You surely aren't in such a great hurry! It's only just past ten." "I have to go back to the hotel," she declared. "Have you so very much to do--and is my society so terribly boring?" the young fellow asked, with a mischievous laugh. "Certainly not," was her reproachful reply, and, as though against her will, she re-seated herself. "You really ought not to say that," she added. "But you seem very anxious to get away. Why?" The girl held her breath, and her great blue eyes were downcast. No. She dare not raise her gaze to his lest he should suspect the terrible truth--he, the son of Sir Henry Remington! "Well," she replied at last. "Because I have some letters to write, and--and to tell the truth, I have a dressmaker coming at half-past ten." "I suppose in a woman's life one's dressmaker is set upon a very high pedestal. All women must bow to the Goddess of Fashion." "You are horribly philosophic." "My philosophy is induced by your attitude towards me, Miss Tempest," he declared. "You are a mystery. You were bright and merry until you knew my name, and then--well, then you suddenly curled into your shell. Really, I confess I can't make you out!" One more experienced than he would probably have discerned that a great and staggering blow had fallen upon his newly-found little friend. She was at a loss how to act--or what to say. Her heart was thumping hard within her. What if he should discover the terrible secret which she alone knew! Fearing lest he should grow suspicious, she was all anxiety to get away--to place him and his memory behind her for ever. Yet, somehow, he had fascinated her, and she sat there quite unable to leave him. Though the sunshine, the life and gaiety about her were brilliant, the whole earth had, for her, grown dark in one single instant. She hardly knew what she did--or what she said.