“How on earth did you know that?” said Lady Kean, startled. “You’re quite right, I do. John Leslie’s a nice boy and he knows how to manage Cynthia. There’s plenty of money on her side of the family and he’s working hard, farming on a small scale, and, I believe, manages to make it pay. The last I heard of the affair, he had been forbidden the house.” “In spite of which, the engagement continues?” “Of course! And I happen to know that Cynthia’s people went up to London this afternoon. John Leslie’s farm is halfway between Callston and Miss Allen’s. All of which accounts largely for Cynthia’s decision not to arrive here till late this evening. I don’t know anything; this is pure conjecture.” “It seems sound reasoning. Who is this Miss Allen?” “Mrs. Draycott’s sister.” “Oh!” remarked Fayre, taking another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. Lady Kean regarded him with approval. “That was nice of you,” she said. “I don’t like her, either. The sister’s quite different, though. She went on to stay with her yesterday. I expect Cynthia’s meeting Mrs. Draycott to-night and if _she_ doesn’t like her she’ll say so!” Fayre meditated, enjoying his cigarette. “No, I don’t like her,” he said at last. “We get women like that in India.” “We get them in England too.” Lady Kean’s voice sounded suddenly flat and lifeless and Fayre, realizing suddenly how late it was, decided that she was tired and that he had better leave her to herself for a time. In any case, he had no desire to discuss Mrs. Draycott. She had been his fellow-guest at Staveley for the past week and he had been glad to see her go. He had just risen to his feet when the door opened and Lady Cynthia came in. She stood in the doorway, straight and slim, sheathed in vivid blue, her dark shingled hair clinging in tight waves about her beautiful little head and, at the sight of her, Fayre realized the truth of Lady Kean’s description. There _was_ something “gallant” about this quaint mixture of youth and self-reliance, and it appealed to him at once. That she was popular, there could be no doubt. A chorus of welcome greeted her entrance, and Lady Staveley swept to meet her and draw her up to the fire. “Cynthia, dear, you must be frozen. Your hands are like ice. Is it bitter outside?” The girl nodded. “Pretty bad. The wind’s dropped, though.” To Fayre, observing her with frank curiosity, her voice sounded tense and there was a glitter in her eyes and a flush just beneath them that troubled him. Was the “modern” girl, he wondered, usually as exotic as this? If so, heaven help her! He watched her as she bent over Lady Kean and was struck by the real affection and solicitude she showed in her manner. “You look tired, child,” said her hostess. “Was it very dull at Miss Allen’s?” “It wasn’t dull,” answered Lady Cynthia slowly. “Anything but.”