"Show the gentleman in, Jane," she said, as composedly as she could. "A friend--at least a friend of my people, from my old place, Mr. Heron." Heron was looking at her, she thought, in a manner that showed he had noticed her embarrassment. "Well, I must wish you a good morning," Mr. Heron said. "Be sure I shan't forget what you were saying." "Thank you--yes; what was I saying?" "Oh, the very good advice you were giving me; and I propose to hear it all out another time. Good morning." "Don't go for a moment--pray don't?" she asked, with an earnestness which surprised Victor. "Only a moment--I would rather you didn't go just yet." The thought suddenly went through her that Mr. Sheppard was the very man to put an exaggerated meaning on the slightest thing that seemed to hint at secrecy of any kind, and that she had better take care to let him see, face to face, what sort of visitor was with her when he came. Victor was glad in any case of the chance of remaining a few moments longer, and was in no particular hurry to go so long as he could think he was not in anybody's way. Victor Heron stood, hat in hand, on the hearth-rug near the chimney-piece. As Mr. Sheppard entered, Heron was the first person he happened to see, and the entirely unexpected sight surprised him. He glanced confusedly from Heron to Minola before he spoke a word, and his manner, always stiff and formal, seemed to acquire in a moment an additional incubus of constraint. Victor Heron had something about him which did not seem exactly English, and which, to a provincial mind, might well suggest the appearance of a foreigner--a Frenchman. Mr. Sheppard had never felt quite satisfied in his own mind about that mysterious rival of whom Minola spoke to him on the memorable day when he saw her last. She had told him that her Alceste was only "a man who lived in a book, Mr. Sheppard--in what you would call a play." How well he remembered the very words she used, and the expression of contempt on her lips as she used them. And he had got the book--the play--and read it--toiled through it--and found that there was an Alceste in it. So far she had told the truth, no doubt; but might not the Alceste have a living embodiment, or might she not have found since that time a supposed realization of her Alceste, and might not this be he--this handsome, foreign-looking young man, who was lounging there as coolly and easily as if the place belonged to him? For a moment an awful doubt filled his mind. Could she be married? Was that her husband? "Miss Grey?" he said in hesitating and questioning tone, as that of one who is not quite clear about the identity of the person he is addressing; but Mr. Sheppard was only giving form unconsciously to the doubt in his own mind, Are you still Miss Grey?