"Our Mr. Rupert, the present owner, favours the picture," said the woman proudly in her natural voice, "and when he come of age three years ago last Christmas there was a grand fancy ball and 'e was dressed exackerly to match the picture, with a curled wig and all. And 'e wore the actual sword, and the very gloves, at least 'e 'eld 'em in 'is 'and. They was too stiff to put on. 'E did look a picture. And 'is mother being Spanish 'ad a lace shawl on 'er 'ead, a duchess she was in 'er own right, and she might a been a queen to look at her. I watched the dancing from the gallery, me having been nurse in the family, and a beautiful sight it was." Essie's dark eyes were fixed intently on the garrulous old servant. "Three years ago last Christmas," she said sharply. "Are you sure of that?" "And wouldn't I be sure that took 'im from the month ma'am, but 'e don't look so like the picture when 'e ain't dressed to match, and without the yaller wig," and she wandered out of the room, evidently more interested in the luncheon preparations than in us. Ted hurried in. When was he not in a hurry? "Luncheon, luncheon," he said. "Don't wait for me, Essie. Rather too long a drive for my little woman. Give her a glass of port, Beatrice. I have to see Rodwell about the roof. Shan't be half a mo. He's got to catch his train. Mr. Kenstone, the Duke, I mean, will be here in ten minutes. If he turns up before I'm back give him a snack. They've sent enough for ten." We did not go in to luncheon. Essie sank down on the divan. I sat down by her, and put my arms round her. She leaned her head against my shoulder. "You heard what that woman said," she whispered. "You see he did not live hundreds of years ago as I thought. The dress deceived me. He's alive now. He's twenty-four." My heart ached for her, but I could find no word to comfort her in her mysterious trouble. As we looked out together through the narrow latticed windows the lines came into my mind: " casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn." It seemed to me that poor Essie was indeed a captive in some "faery land forlorn," and that invisible perilous seas were foaming round her casement windows. She gave a slight shudder, and started up. A man was walking slowly up and down the bowling green. "It is he," she said. "I've seen him walk there a hundred times." She watched the tall dignified figure pace up and down, and then turned her eyes from him to me. They were wide, and the pupils dilated. "Beatrice," she said solemnly, "I must not meet that man. He must not see me, for his sake, and for mine. All his life long he must go on thinking as he does now, that I am ... a dream." "The old woman says he starts for Spain to-day." Ted's roundabout figure was suddenly seen trundling out across the grass towards the distant pacing figure. "Who is that?" said Essie frowning. "Who is that? Why, it's Ted of course." "And who is Ted?"