It was a hopelessly grey afternoon early in December, and every one was out of London. Mrs. Harrington had a certain circle of friends--middle-aged or elderly women, rich like herself, lonely like herself--whom she despised. They all rather disliked each other, these women, but they visited nevertheless. They dined together seriously; keeping in mind the cook, and watchful over the wine. But the majority of these ladies had gone away for the winter. The Riviera was created for such. Mrs. Harrington, however, never went abroad in the winter. She said that she had travelled too much when she was younger--in the lifetime of her husband--to care about it now. The Honourable George Henry Harrington had, in fact, lived abroad for financial reasons, and the name was not of sweet savour in the nostrils of hotel-keepers. The married life referred to occasionally in cold tones by the Honourable Mrs. Harrington had been of that order which is curtly called "cat and dog," and likewise "hand to mouth." Therefore Mrs. Harrington avoided the Continent. She could easily, of her affluence, have paid certain large debts which she knew to be outstanding, but she held a theory that dead men owe nothing. And with this theory she lubricated an easy-going conscience. The mistress of the large house in Grosvenor Gardens was wondering discontentedly what she was going to do with herself until tea-time, when she heard the sound of a bell ringing far down in the basement. Despite the grand drawing-room, despite the rich rustle of her grey silk dress, this great lady peeped from behind the curtain, and saw a hansom cab. A few minutes later the door was thrown open by the angry butler. "Miss Challoner--Captain Bontnor." Eve came in, and at her heels Captain Bontnor, who sheered off as it were from the butler, and gave him a wide berth. Mrs. Harrington could be gracious when she liked. She liked now, and she would have kissed her visitor had that young lady shown any desire for such an honour. But there was a faint reflex of Spanish ceremony in Eve Challoner, of which she was probably unaware. A few years ago it would not have been noticeable, but to-day we are hail-fellow-well-met even with ladies--which is a mistake, on the part of the ladies. "So you received my letter, my dear," said Mrs. Harrington. "Yes," replied Eve. "This is my uncle--Captain Bontnor." Mrs. Harrington had the bad taste to raise her eyebrows infinitesimally, and Captain Bontnor saw it. "How do you do?" said Mrs. Harrington, with a stiff bow. "I am quite well, thank you, marm," replied the sailor, with more aplomb than Eve had yet seen him display. Without waiting to hear this satisfactory intelligence, Mrs. Harrington turned to Eve again. She evidently intended to ignore Captain Bontnor systematically and completely. "You know," she said, "I am related to your father--"