"We have been amusing ourselves by the study of Mr. Lobyer's friends," said Miss Evershed. "What delightful people they are, and what a privilege it is to meet them! They have begun to talk about American finance and the drain of gold already. However, we are not entirely given over to Manchester. The military element is strong among us. There are three or four of the Plungers, and amongst them that Major Gordon, who distinguished himself at Burradalchoodah." The room, bright and confused before, span round before Cecil's eyes for a moment, a chaos of light and splendour. "Is Major Gordon here?" she asked. "Yes. Do you know him? He is over there by the fireplace, talking to Nugent and Mr. Lobyer. Don't you think him very handsome? I do; much handsomer than Nugent; grander and more distinguished; not such a dash of _petit-maître_ about him; but then no civilian is ever quite equal to a high-bred military man. I suppose the girls here will allow poor Nugent a _relâche_, and devote their attention to the Major, who is a widower, and enormously rich, I am told." "Yes," Cecil answered quietly; "he is very rich; he is my aunt's nephew, and a kind of distant connection of my own, I suppose." Miss Evershed's volubility had given Cecil time to recover her composure, and to read herself one of those little lectures with which she had been accustomed of late to school herself. What reason had she to be agitated? What was it to her that chance had brought Hector Gordon to Pevenshall? Could there be any one in the room more utterly a stranger to her than he must be for evermore? She remembered this, and tried to think of her absent husband-brooding over the details of Snooks _versus_ Tomkins by his lonely hearth, while she affected to listen to Miss Evershed's vivacious chatter. Across the crowd she saw the proud head that had bent over her on the misty sands. They were strangers--such utter strangers now and for evermore; but even in that lighted room, amidst the odour of exotics, the buzz and hum of many voices, the breath of the ocean came back to her, and like a rushing wind from that unforgotten sea returned the memory of the past, with all its sorrow and passion, its silent anguish and despair. CHAPTER XXIII. "HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?"