When Mr Muirhead looked up Raife's ancestry in the morning, he was not sorry to learn that Raife was descended from the Tudor and Elizabethan Reymingtounes. He had just completed this operation when they met Raife in the foyer. They greeted one another with cordiality, and Mr Muirhead induced Raife, without much difficulty, to join them in an expedition. Hilda was divinely beautiful at the dinner of the previous night. On this morning, riding in the bright sunlight, she was radiant. The reserve of the previous evening was absent and she talked intellectually. At times, her conversation was brilliant, and interspersed with those quaint witticisms that seem only possible to Americans, and are doubly entertaining when they flow from the lips of a pretty American girl. As Raife sat opposite to her, listening to the pleasing flow of her talk, he wrestled with his inclinations, and his mind determined for him that he need not be altogether a woman-hater. There was no harm in enjoying the society of a pretty girl as long as he did not allow himself to become entangled. At the same time, he could not help contrasting this sunny, vivacious young girl, with the handsome, white-haired, courtly father, against the mysterious Gilda, admittedly a "lady" burglar, and her sinister uncle with the unpleasing eyes. During a lull in the talk, which had been mostly between Hilda and Raife, Mr Muirhead said: "I notice from your card that you are Sir Raife Remington, a baronet. I've been wondering why you didn't mention that fact before." Raife laughed, and replied: "Oh, I don't know. It didn't occur to me." Mr Muirhead was characteristically American, a seeker after information or truth, so he added: "I am a very plain American and I am not familiar with the observances or etiquette of English society. I hazard the suggestion that we should address you as `Sir Raife,' Is that correct?" Raife was very charmed with these ingenuous people, and this time he laughed heartily until his shoulder reminded them all of the dagger wound. Recovering from the spasm of pain, which had caused Hilda to regard him with the real sympathy which brought the perfect beauty into her lustrous eyes, he said: "I hope, sir, you will call me Remington, just Remington. The intricacies of etiquette are far too tiresome for such pleasant occasions as these. If Miss Muirhead insists on calling me `Sir Raife' I must submit, but the sooner she will forget the prefix the greater will be my happiness." Hilda, with eyes that had changed from sympathy to merriment, and with fun that was not intended for flirtation, exclaimed: "Really, Sir Raife, do you mean that? If so, how soon may I call you just `Raife' only?" Mr Muirhead raised his eyebrows with a quizzical smile. Raife replied: "I am not very familiar with your language as you always charmingly and frequently quaintly express it, but I dare to suggest `right now!'"