"Yes," said the stout lady, "we are all so delighted. Agatha was only saying yesterday that your success was wonderful. She was quite excited about it." The fond mother looked invitingly towards her daughter with a smile that said as plainly as words-- "There you are! I have cleared the stage for you--step in and score a point." But Agatha did not respond. "I suppose it is a steamer," continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker eagerly. "A steam man-of-war." "Yes," replied Fitz, with perfect gravity, "a steam man-of-war." "The Horrible--or the Terrible, is it not?" "The Terrific." There was an account of the new war-ship in the evening paper which Agatha had laid aside, and Fitz was impolitely glancing at this while he spoke. The journal gave the names of the officers. Fitz was wondering whether Eve Challoner ever saw the Globe. Mrs. Ingham-Baker became lost in a maternal fit of admiration. She was looking at Agatha with her head on one side. At intervals she glanced towards Fitz--an inviting glance, as if to draw his attention to the fact that one of Nature's most perfect productions was waiting to gladden his vision. "Look!" that little glance seemed to say. "Look at Agatha. IS she not lovely?" But Fitz was still wondering whether Eve was in the habit of reading the Globe. He often wondered thus about her daily habits, trying to picture, in his ignorant masculine way, the hours and minutes of a girl's daily existence. Mrs. Ingham-Baker could not stand this waste of his time and Agatha's dress. "What do you think of the frock?" she asked Mrs. Harrington, in a whisper which was audible to every one in the room. "It is very pretty," replied the hostess, who happened to be in a good humour. Dress possessed a small corner of her cold heart. It was one of very few weaknesses. It was almost a redeeming point in a too man-like character. Her own dresses were always perfect, usually of the richest silk--and grey. Hence she was known as the Grey Lady, and only a few--for Society has neither time nor capacity for thought--wondered whether the colour had penetrated to her soul. The two now became engaged in a technical conversation, which was only interrupted by the arrival of tea. Luke and Agatha were talking about Malta. She was telling him that their friends in Valetta had invited them to go again next year, and the Croonah was mentioned. While the hostess was attending to the teapot, Mrs. Ingham-Baker took the opportunity of disturbing Fitz--of stirring him up, so to speak, and making him look at Agatha. "Do you think you would have recognised your old playmate if you had met her accidentally--to-night, for instance, at the ball?" she asked. Again the inviting glance toward her daughter, to which Fitz naturally responded. It was too obvious to ignore. "No; I do not think so," he replied, going back in his mind to the recollection of a thin-legged little girl with lank hair.