"My dear Grace," said Lady Bulstrode, fanning herself gently, "do all dogs take to you like that?" Astarte put Rufus down with a little laugh. "Only well-bred ones," she said. "Well, let me introduce you both. This is Guy Heathcote, Grace; I've often talked to you about him. Guy, this is my friend, Miss Grace Conway." I bowed. "I don't know how to apologize for Rufus," I said. "I can only think you must be like someone he knows." "I expect I am," she answered with delightful frankness. Then, turning to Lady Bulstrode, she added, "I came to bring you your change. Here it is--four pound ten." And she put down a little pile of gold on the desk. "Did the mare go all right?" She nodded. "Oh, yes, we went in and out in great style, and the children enjoyed themselves enormously. I mustn't stop to talk now, though. I've promised to tell them a story before dinner, and they won't go to sleep if I disappoint them. You shall hear all about our adventures later." She smiled--that dear, merry smile I knew so well--and the next moment she had gone. There was a short pause. Then I took a deep steadying breath. "Who is that beautiful thing?" I asked. "That," said Lady Bulstrode with some pride, "is my governess." "Your governess!" I repeated. "What does she teach you?" Lady Bulstrode chuckled. "Well, when I say my governess, I am speaking as a grandmother. She is supposed to be looking after Alan's children, though as a matter of fact she looks after me just as much. I don't know what I should do without Grace." I glanced at her with some sympathy. "And how did you find Grace?" I asked. Lady Bulstrode shivered slightly. "Don't, Guy," she said; "it reminds me of our local 'minister'--a dreadful person. Grace is the daughter of the only man I ever loved--poor Jack Conway." "What, the explorer?" I said. She nodded. "When he fell down that stupid cliff and killed himself, he left Grace absolutely unprovided for. It was just like poor Jack--a dear, delightful man, but quite hopeless about anything to do with money. I don't suppose he'd ever thought what would happen to Grace if he died. He took her away from school when she was about sixteen, and for the last three years before he was killed they'd been wandering about the world together in that absurd little ship of his, just as if she'd been a boy." "Ah!" I said thoughtfully, for I was beginning to "smell land," as sailors put it. "You see," went on Lady Bulstrode, "all Jack's income, such as it was, died with him, and there was nothing left for Grace except the copyright of his books. Well, goodness knows Grace isn't a girl who wants luxuries, but, all the same, you can't live on three volumes of travels, even if they have been praised by the Royal Geographical Society." "It sounds rather indigestible," I admitted.