“At half-past two,” he announced, glancing at his watch, “I have an appointment with a woollen manufacturer from Bradford. I hope to get him to join my council.” He bowed ceremoniously to the lawyer, nodded to Dominey with the familiarity of an old friend, and made his bustling, good-humoured way out of the room. “A sound business man, I should think,” was the former's comment. “I wish him luck with his League. You yourself, Sir Everard, will need to develop some new interests. Why not politics?” “I really expect to find life a little difficult at first,” admitted Dominey, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have lost many of the tastes of my youth, and I am very much afraid that my friends over here will call me colonial. I can't fancy myself doing nothing down in Norfolk all the rest of my days. Perhaps I shall go into Parliament.” “You must forgive my saying,” his companion declared impulsively, “that I never knew ten years make such a difference in a man in my life.” “The colonies,” Dominey pronounced, “are a kill or cure sort of business. You either take your drubbing and come out a stronger man, or you go under. I had the very narrowest escape from going under myself, but I just pulled together in time. To-day I wouldn't have been without my hard times for anything in the world.” “If you will permit me,” Mr. Mangan said, with an inherited pomposity, “on our first meeting under the new conditions, I should like to offer you my hearty congratulations, not only upon what you have accomplished but upon what you have become.” “And also, I hope,” Dominey rejoined, smiling a little seriously and with a curious glint in his eyes, “upon what I may yet accomplish.” The Duchess and her companion had risen to their feet, and the former, on her way out, recognising her solicitor, paused graciously. “How do you do, Mr. Mangan?” she said. “I hope you are looking after those troublesome tenants of mine in Leicestershire?” “We shall make our report in due course, Duchess,” Mangan assured her. “Will you permit me,” he added, “to bring back to your memory a relative who has just returned from abroad--Sir Everard Dominey?” Dominey had risen to his feet a moment previously and now extended his hand. The Duchess, who was a tall, graceful woman, with masses of fair hair only faintly interspersed with grey, very fine brown eyes, the complexion of a girl, and, to quite her own confession, the manners of a kitchen maid, stared at him for a moment without any response. “Sir Everard Dominey?” she repeated. “Everard? Ridiculous!” Dominey's extended hand was at once withdrawn, and the tentative smile faded from his lips. The lawyer plunged into the breach. “I can assure your Grace,” he insisted earnestly, “that there is no doubt whatever about Sir Everard's identity. He only returned from Africa during the last few days.” The Duchess's incredulity remained, wholly good-natured but ministered to by her natural obstinacy.