Mr. Blagdon did not (as his sister had hopefully anticipated) tire of his new discovery; on the contrary, he was blatantly proud of his daughter, of her youth, good looks, and animal spirits. She was not a success among her grandmother’s set (and a little cowed by that old lady), but for the sake of the family, they accepted this loud, bouncing young person--they shrank from further scandal. The girl carried herself well, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and danced admirably. She might have been _worse_! Who could believe, that she had been brought up on a Swiss farm? but then, these dear ladies had no experience of the modern education which is afforded in Swiss schools. This quick-witted, adaptable damsel, soon picked up society and racing jargon; she had the aplomb of a woman of thirty, ruled her adoring father, banished her unruly aunt, patronised--yes, patronised, the Slaters, and overawed Lord Robby--in short, a domestic Queen Elizabeth! It was a cruel blow to poor Lady Rashleigh to be compelled to abandon her luxurious home, the use of a motor, gifts of money, and the loan of jewels, in order to make way for a bold, aggressive young woman, who was said to bear a resemblance to herself! She retired in deplorably low spirits to what she was pleased to call ‘her lair.’ A six-roomed flat, with two good sitting-rooms, two small bedrooms, and the usual black hole for the accommodation of servants. Cara paid her aunt a prompt visit--inspired by curiosity, not affection. The suite, shabby and dusty, commanded an extensive view of a garage; the drawing-room was well furnished, but had the rakish air of a _passée_ beauty; and sofas and cabinets, (evident spoil from Sharsley,) blocked up too much space. The bedroom,--also encumbered by Sharsley furniture, seemed to be half filled with piles of shabby cardboard boxes of all sizes; here too were dozens of dusty medicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes, and on the dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a syphon, and the latest edition of _Ruff_. Two little barking Poms ran in and out; and a gloomy cook, with arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen doorway staring with lowering eyes. Everything was untidy, neglected, and squalid. No wonder Aunt Con preferred to hang on in Hill Street!