For three days she stayed at home, expecting Paul, but he did not come, and she went out for her usual ride in the Park, hoping to meet him. An elderly groom now rode behind her, and she surveyed him with extreme disgust, as she remembered the handsome lad who had once filled that place. Nowhere did Paul appear, but in the Ladies' Mile she passed an elegant brougham in which sat a very lovely girl and a mild old lady. "That is Talbot's fiancee," said Maud Churchill, who had joined her. "Isn't she beautiful?" "Not at all--yes, very," was Lillian's somewhat peculiar reply, for jealousy and truth had a conflict just then. "He's so perfectly absorbed and devoted that I am sure that story is true, so adieu to our hopes," laughed Maud. "Did you have any? Good-bye, I must go." And Lillian rode home at a pace which caused the stout groom great distress. "Mamma, I've seen Paul's betrothed!" she cried, running into her mother's boudoir. "And I have seen Paul himself," replied my lady, with a warning look, for there he stood, with half-extended hand, as if waiting to be acknowledged. Lillian forgot her embarrassment in her pleasure, and made him an elaborate curtsy, saying, with a half-merry, half-reproachful glance, "Mr. Talbot is welcome in whatever guise he appears." "I choose to appear as Paul, then, and offer you a seat, Miss Lillian," he said, assuming as much of his boyish manner as he could. Lillian took it and tried to feel at ease, but the difference between the lad she remembered and the man she now saw was too great to be forgotten. "Now tell us your adventures, and why you vanished away so mysteriously four years ago," she said, with a touch of the childish imperiousness in her voice, though her frank eyes fell before his. "I was about to do so when you appeared with news concerning my cousin," he began. "Your cousin!" exclaimed Lillian. "Yes, Helen's mother and my own were sisters. Both married Englishmen, both died young, leaving us to care for each other. We were like a brother and sister, and always together till I left her to serve Colonel Daventry. The death of the old priest to whom I entrusted her recalled me to Genoa, for I was then her only guardian. I meant to have taken leave of you, my lady, properly, but the consequences of that foolish trick of mine frightened me away in the most unmannerly fashion." "Ah, it was you, then, in the state chamber; I always thought so," and Lady Trevlyn drew a long breath of relief.