“What’s the matter with you, my good fellow, is,” Hugh said to himself, as he walked back to the hotel that night, “you’re a fickle man; you don’t know your own mind. A week ago you were dreaming of Marjorie; you considered blue eyes the most beautiful thing in the world. You would not have listened to the claims of eyes of any other colour, and now—Bless her dear little heart, she’ll be happy as the day is long with Tom Arundel, with his nice fair hair parted down the middle, and her pretty scented notepaper. Of course she’ll be happy. She would have been miserable at Hurst Dormer, and so should I have been; seeing her miserable, I should have been miserable myself. But I shall go back to Hurst Dormer to-morrow and start on that renovation work. It will give me something to occupy my time and attention.” That night, much to his surprise, Hugh found he could not sleep. “It’s the strange bed,” he said. “It’s the noise of the London streets.” Sleeplessness had never troubled him before, but to-night he rolled and tossed from side to side, and then at last he sat bolt upright in the bed. “Good Lord!” he said. “Good Lord, it can’t be!” He stared into the thick darkness and saw an oval face, crowned by waving brown hair, that glinted gold in the highlights. He saw a sweet, womanly, tender, smiling mouth and a pair of grey eyes that seemed to burn into his own. “It can’t be!” he said again. And yet it was! CHAPTER IX THE PEACEMAKER “Bless my soul!” said General Bartholomew. He had turned to the last page and looked at the signature. “Alicia Linden! I haven’t heard a word of her for five and twenty years. A confoundedly handsome girl she was too. Hudson, where’s my glasses?” “Here, General,” said the young secretary. The General put them on. “My dear George,” he read. It was a long letter, four pages closely written in Lady Linden’s strong, almost masculine hand. “...I remember that when she visited me years ago, she told that me you were an old friend of her father’s. This being so, I think you should combine with me in trying to bring these two wrong-headed young people together. I have quarrelled with Hugh Alston, so I can do nothing at the moment; but you, being on the spot so to speak, in London, and Hugh I understand also being in London...” “What the dickens is the woman drivelling about?” the General demanded. “Hudson!” “Yes, sir!” “Read this letter carefully, digest it, and then briefly explain to me what the dickens it is all about.” The secretary took the letter and read it carefully. “This letter is from Lady Linden, of Cornbridge Manor House, Cornbridge. She is deeply interested in a young lady, Miss Joan Meredyth. At least—” Hudson paused. “Joan, pretty little Joan Meredyth—old Tom Meredyth’s girl. Yes, go on!” “Three years ago,” Hudson went on, “Miss Meredyth was married in secret to a Mr. Hugh Alston—”