Conny came up to them, splendid as ever, but with a restless light in her eyes, an unnatural flush on her cheek. "How do you do, girls?" she said, abruptly. "You look seedy, Gerty." Then, as Frank moved off to fetch them some tea: "I do so hate afternoon affairs, don't you?" "How pretty Frank looks," whispered Phyllis to Lucy; "I like to see him flying in and out among the people, as though his life depended on it, don't you? And the daffodil in his coat just suits his complexion." "Phyllis, don't be so silly!" Lucy refrained from smiling, but her eyes followed, with some amusement, the picturesque and active figure of her host, as he went about his duties with his usual air of earnestness and candour. "Come and look at the pictures, Lucy. That's what you're here for, you know," remarked Fred, who had joined their group, and was looking the very embodiment of Philistine comeliness. "I haven't seen you for an age," he added, as they made their way to one of the easels. "That is your own fault, isn't it?" said Lucy, lightly. "Conny has got it into her head that you don't care to see us." "How can Conny be so silly?" "Don't tell her I told you. She would be in no end of a wax," he added, as Phyllis and Constance pressed by them in the crush. Gertrude was still standing near the doorway, sipping her tea, and looking about her with a rather wistful interest. She had caught here and there glimpses of familiar faces, faces from her own old world--that world which, taken _en masse_, she had so fervently disliked; but no one had taken any notice of the young woman by the doorway, with her pale face and suit of rusty black. "I feel like a ghost," she said to Frank, as she handed him her empty cup. "You do look horribly white," he answered, with genuine concern; "I wish you were looking as well as your sisters--Miss Phyllis for instance." He glanced across as he spoke with undisguised admiration at the slim young figure, and blooming face of the girl, who stood smiling down with amiable indifference at one of his own canvasses. Phyllis Lorimer belonged to that rare order of women who are absolutely independent of their clothes. By the side of her old black gown and well-worn hat, Constance Devonshire's elaborate spring costume looked vulgar and obtrusive; and Constance herself, in the light of her friend's more delicate beauty, seemed _bourgeoise_ and overblown. The effect of this contrast was not lost on two men who, at this point of the proceedings, strolled into the room, and whom the Oakleys came forward with some _empressement_ to receive. "I have brought you Lord Watergate," Gertrude heard one of them say, in a voice which she recognised at once, the sound of which filled her with a vague sense of discomfort. "Darrell, by all that's wonderful!" said Frank, _sotto voce_, his eyes shining with enthusiasm; "there, with the light Vandyke beard--but you know him already."