“You must really have your eyes seen to, dear,” the Marchioness remarked in a tone of tender concern. “When you can’t see such an old friend as Mr. Wingrave from a few yards away, they must be very bad indeed. How are you, Captain Kendrick? Come and tell me about the polo this afternoon. Sorry I can’t offer you all chairs. This is an absurd box--it was only meant for two!” “Come into ours,” Lady Ruth said; “we have chairs for six, I think.” The Marchioness shook her head. “I wish I had a millionaire in the family,” she murmured. “All the same, I hate large parties. I am old-fashioned enough to think that two is a delightful number.” Lady Ruth laid her hand upon Wingrave’s arm. “A decided hint, Mr. Wingrave,” she declared. “Come and let me introduce you to my sister. Our box is only a few yards off.” “I AM MISANTHROPOS, AND HATE MANKIND” Wingrave had just come in from an early gallop. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed, and his eyes were bright. He had been riding hard to escape from disconcerting thoughts. He looked in at the study, and found Aynesworth with a mass of correspondence before him. “Anything important?” he asked. “Not yet,” Aynesworth answered. “The letters marked private I have sent up to your room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you.” Wingrave closed the door. “Well?” he said. “I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night,” Aynesworth said, “with a--person who saw you only once, soon after I first came to you--before America. You were some distance away, and yet--my friend recognized you.” Wingrave shrugged his shoulders. “That, of course, is possible,” he answered. “It really does not matter so very much unless they knew me--as Wingrave Seton!” “My friend,” Aynesworth said, “recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton.” Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “Who was it?” he asked. “A most unlikely person,” Aynesworth remarked smiling. “Do you remember, when we went down to Tredowen just before we left for America, a little, long-legged, black-frocked child, whom we met in the gardens--the organist’s daughter, you know?” “What of her?” Wingrave asked. “It was she who was with me,” Aynesworth remarked. “It was she who saw you in the box with the Marchioness of Westchester.” Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave was regarding him. Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had not yet lost his early trick of studying him closely, knew that, for some reason or other, his intelligence had proved disturbing. “Have you then--kept up your acquaintance with this child?” he demanded. Aynesworth shook his head. “She is not a child any longer, but a very beautiful young woman,” he said. “I met her again quite by accident. She is up in London, studying art at the studio of an old friend of mine who has a class of girls. I called to see him the other afternoon, and recognized her.”