Cecil listened to the old, old story of Hector's childhood to-night as patiently as she had been wont to listen any time within the last two years; but even calm queenly Lady Cecil Chudleigh was a little startled when the dowager exclaimed: "And now, my dear, I am going to surprise you. Hector Gordon will be here to breakfast with us to-morrow morning----" "Auntie!" "He will arrive with the London papers, at a quarter before twelve o'clock. We must have fried soles, and mutton cutlets, and Worcester sauce, and potted game, and all those coarse high-seasoned things that men like; and you can put a little fruit on the table to make it look pretty; which, of course, will do for dessert afterwards; and you will have to give out the tea and coffee service, and half-a-dozen large forks. I only hope and pray the servants here are honest. If it wasn't for that tiresome lion prancing upon every atom of silver, one might persuade servants and people that it was all electro----" "But, auntie," said Cecil, heedless of the housekeeping details, "I thought Captain Gordon was in India." "And so did I, my dear: but it seems he has come home on sick leave--not ill, he tells me, but only knocked up by climate and hard work; and he went to Dorset Square yesterday morning unannounced, on purpose to surprise me--the consequence of which was that he found me out of the way, as people generally do when they plan those romantic surprises; and he has brought me an Indian shawl, because I am so fond of Indian shawls, he says. That's always the way with people. If they see you suffering from a plethora of any kind of property, they take it into their heads that you have a passion for that especial class of property, and rush to buy you more of it. I've no common patience with such folly." Perhaps Mrs. MacClaverhouse said this because it was her habit to be sharp and unsparing, and she found herself too much inclined to melt into weak motherly tenderness when she spoke of her nephew. Now the hero of all the old nursery and schoolboy stories was so near at hand, Cecil Chudleigh began to think of him a little more seriously than ever she had done before. He was weak and ill, no doubt, his aunt said, in spite of his assurances to the contrary; and in that case he must be kept in the sleepy Hampshire village, and nursed till he was strong again. "And you must help to nurse him, Cecil," said the widow; "and if by any chance he should happen to fall in love with you, be sure you remember that he's a better match than one out of fifty of the young men you meet in London--and Heaven knows they are scarce enough nowadays. If you weren't my sister's own child I wouldn't throw you in his way, for Hector might marry any woman in England; but at the worst it would sound well for his wife's name to have a handle to it." Lady Cecil's face was dyed with a hot, indignant blush.