In her husband's lifetime she had been a singularly lovely and gracious figure, of curiously still demeanour and abstracted manner, treated with an almost idolatrous devotion by those about her. In those far-away days his aunt--for so he had been taught to call her--had always worn, even when on long, dusty Continental journeys, pale lavenders, soft greys, and ivory whites, each of her garments being fashioned in a way which, while scrupulously simple, yet heightened the quality of her physical beauty, and set her apart as on a pinnacle of exquisite and spotless womanliness. Wantley remembered the kind of sensation which the great English milord and his lady naturally created in the little-frequented French and German towns selected by them for sometimes prolonged halts. To-day, as he sat opposite to her, there came over him with extraordinary vividness the recollection of one such sojourn in a Bavarian village overhung by an historic castle, the owner of which had invited Lord Wantley and his whole party to spend a day there. The young man recalled with whimsical clearness each incident of what had been an enchanting episode--the hours spent in the green alleys of a park of which the still canals, stone terraces, and formal statuary recalled, as they were meant to do, Versailles, for the place had been designed in those far-off days when France and the French ideal of life still ruled the German imagination. He remembered the fair-haired German girl whose gentle presence had for him dominated the scene, her shy kindliness, the contrast between her good English and his own and his cousin's indifferent German; and then the feeling with which he had heard some passing words--a brief question and a briefer answer--exchanged between the hospitable Prince and the noble philanthropist: 'A charming lad--doubtless your eldest son?' And the quick answer, 'No, no! quite a distant kinsman.' The words had rankled, and over years. Lady Wantley had never been to London in August, and so she had thought to find a town deserted, save for the consoling oasis of St. James's Place. She looked through the windows of the four-wheeled cab, also an utterly unfamiliar form of conveyance, with a feeling of alarm and discomfort. 'How many people there seem to be left in London!' she said at last, rather nervously. 'You need not fear that you will see any one that you know,' Wantley answered dryly. 'Still Mr. Gumberg is not the only Londoner who stays in London through the summer. The difference between himself and his fellow-townsmen is that he chooses to remain, and that they must do so.'