It occurred to her that to let slip the fact of Doris's love-affair to the mother of Mr. Hamilton Stirling would be the most effective method of revenging herself, not upon the Squire only, but upon Mrs. Stirling, whom she cordially disliked, and upon Mrs. Winton. She was quite aware that the latter wanted to secure Mr. Hamilton Stirling for her daughter, and she had gathered that the Squire did not desire him to know about Dick Maurice. If so, he should have taken a little more trouble about her. She was not going to be shunted on one side in this fashion. People might be offended with her for speaking out,—but what then? She could easily shift her quarters again. Lynnbrooke was a fearfully dull place, and she had had nearly enough of it. Standing in an elegant attitude was well enough for ten minutes, but the ten grew into fifteen, the fifteen into twenty, and she became both tired and annoyed. Tea was brought in, and still the hostess remained absent. She wandered round the room, paying a perfunctory attention to the pictures. One in a shady corner drew closer interest. Two heads, side by side, were lightly sketched in French chalks; both of them bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Stirling, though the one was more delicate in feature, more refined, more really beautiful than the other. Both were young. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long," a voice said behind her. "How do you do? Will you have some tea?" Mrs. Brutt turned to shake hands. "I quite understand," she said, secretly wrathful at receiving so scant an apology. "You are always such a busy person. But we had not met for so long, I thought I might venture to say I would wait. I am rather struck with this pair of heads. So well sketched: such fine faces! Am I wrong in supposing that one of the two is Mr. Stirling?" "He and his brother." "Ah, to be sure—the father of Miss Stirling. He died, I believe, when she was quite a little child." "Yes. Years ago. Will you come and sit down?" "And—which of the two, may I ask, is our Mr. Stirling? This one, I suppose,—such a handsome face!" "That was the brother—Maurice Stirling." Mrs. Brutt echoed the word "Maurice!" with an intonation of surprise. Then she took a chair, and poured out a string of bland remarks on the weather, the neighbourhood, why she had come, whom she had seen lately, gradually edging her way in the direction that she wished. Switzerland had to be dragged in, neck and shoulders. Mountains, with their exquisite scenery, came next; and Doris followed. "By-the-by"—playing with her bracelet—"I wonder whether you have happened to hear of the young surgeon, Mr. Richard Maurice, whom we happened to meet abroad. Curious how many Maurices there seem to be!"— reflectively. "Really, quite odd. I imagine that the Squire is acquainted with him." "Not unlikely," Mrs. Stirling said carelessly. "Will you have some cake?"