Was it, could it be, his Stella, his modest and refined lady-love, this bold-eyed woman with the coarse laugh, who, in a gorgeous tea-gown of red brocade, far too elaborate and vivid in color for morning wear, swept into the room, returning the vulgar and silly banter of her chosen acquaintances in the style of a fourth-rate barmaid? She did not at first notice Lord Carthew as he stood, pale and motionless, by the door. But even when she perceived him, she was in no way abashed. “Why, I declare,” she cried, with a loud laugh, “there’s my husband. Where did you boys pick him up? Glad to see you, Carthew. Have a drop of fizz? Stephen, open another bottle for his lordship.” The three men had risen in surprise at the mention of Lord Carthew’s name, and now glanced undecidedly from their hostess, whom they had met for the first time in the hotel entrance a few hours ago, to the small, plain man whom she claimed as her husband. Lady Carthew had flung herself easily into a deep arm-chair, and was to all appearance heartily enjoying their embarrassment, when another tap at the drawing-room door heralded the entrance of a short, pale man of about fifty, with a handsome, sinister face, which displayed a marked resemblance to that of the black-haired, blue-eyed woman in scarlet who lounged and laughed before him. For the second time Lady Carthew showed neither confusion nor surprise. “Well, I’m blest if it isn’t my dad!” she cried in a hoarse voice, which did much to counteract the effect of her remarkable beauty. “A jolly old family party we’ll make, though I can’t say I’m as fond of my papa as I ought to be, seeing what a nice, affectionate old gentleman he is. Don’t go, boys! The fun is just going to begin!” “Is she mad?” Sir Philip asked aloud of his son-in-law. “I suppose so.” “Mad! Not a bit of it,” laughed the lady. “As sane as you are, and a lot saner. _I_ should never have made the mistake _you_ did,” she continued, addressing her father, “of marrying a gypsy out of a caravan, and then thinking you could bring her daughter up and palm her off as a Duchess’ grandchild merely by stuffing her head full of book-learning. You and Carthew there are both a couple of fools. But I mean to lead you a pretty dance, and thoroughly enjoy myself. I’m not mad enough to be shut up, and not bad enough to be divorced; and I shall remain Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter and Lord Carthew’s wife for years to come. I know a good thing when I see it!” The three men had taken their hats, and now clumsily excused themselves; they did not care for the expression on Sir Philip Cranstoun’s face. As the door closed upon them, Lord Carthew turned to his father-in-law. “Is what she says true?” he asked, sternly. “That you deceived me, and that she is really the daughter of a gypsy?”