When he had told her of that little matter of Nell's birth, she had been silent a long minute, looking in his face, and then had said: “Poor child! I wonder if SHE knows! People are so unkind, even nowadays!” He could not himself think of anyone who would pay attention to such a thing, except to be kinder to the girl; but in such matters Sylvia was the better judge, in closer touch with general thought. She met people that he did not—and of a more normal species. It was rather late when he got to Dromore's diggings on that third visit. “Mr. Dromore, sir,” the man said—he had one of those strictly confidential faces bestowed by an all-wise Providence on servants in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly—“Mr. Dromore, sir, is not in. But he will be almost sure to be in to dress. Miss Nell is in, sir.” And there she was, sitting at the table, pasting photographs into an album—lonely young creature in that abode of male middle-age! Lennan stood, unheard, gazing at the back of her head, with its thick crinkly-brown hair tied back on her dark-red frock. And, to the confidential man's soft: “Mr. Lennan, miss,” he added a softer: “May I come in?” She put her hand into his with intense composure. “Oh, yes, do! if you don't mind the mess I'm making;” and, with a little squeeze of the tips of his fingers, added: “Would it bore you to see my photographs?” And down they sat together before the photographs—snapshots of people with guns or fishing-rods, little groups of schoolgirls, kittens, Dromore and herself on horseback, and several of a young man with a broad, daring, rather good-looking face. “That's Oliver—Oliver Dromore—Dad's first cousin once removed. Rather nice, isn't he? Do you like his expression?” Lennan did not know. Not her second cousin; her father's first cousin once removed! And again there leaped in him that unreasoning flame of indignant pity. “And how about drawing? You haven't come to be taught yet.” She went almost as red as her frock. “I thought you were only being polite. I oughtn't to have asked. Of course, I want to awfully—only I know it'll bore you.” “It won't at all.” She looked up at that. What peculiar languorous eyes they were! “Shall I come to-morrow, then?” “Any day you like, between half-past twelve and one.” “Where?” He took out a card. “Mark Lennan—yes—I like your name. I liked it the other day. It's awfully nice!” What was in a name that she should like him because of it? His fame as a sculptor—such as it was—could have nothing to do with that, for she would certainly not know of it. Ah! but there was a lot in a name—for children. In his childhood what fascination there had been in the words macaroon, and Spaniard, and Carinola, and Aldebaran, and Mr. McCrae. For quite a week the whole world had been Mr. McCrae—a most ordinary friend of Gordy's.