By a curious coincidence, the day and hour of Mr. Lumley’s arrival and Mrs. Fen’s departure were simultaneous; indeed, they actually met on the little platform at Tatton, the lady, encumbered with a goodly quantity of luggage, queer-shaped domestic parcels, and even returned empties. All these were, however, the care of Tom, and she hurried off to take her ticket; as she turned away from the window she was accosted by, of all people, young Lumley! How good-looking he was, she noted fretfully, and what on earth was bringing him to Thornby again? Could it be Letty? She must have a word with Tom at once; he was on no account to invite Lancelot to The Holt, not on any pretext whatever. Meanwhile, she extended a stiff hand, and said: “What, back already! How do you manage to get all this leave? It looks as if they were able to _spare_ you!” and she smiled disagreeably. What the deuce was the matter with Mrs. Fen? Lumley wondered; and they had always been such pals--why had she her knife into him? (Mrs. Fen confessed to a weakness for young men, and even allowed herself to be chaffed about ‘her boys.’ She liked them to hail her at Meets, jog beside her from cover to cover, could make herself agreeable at a ball supper, and had been known to sit out. Young fellows looked on Mrs. “Fen” as a good sporting sort, with no nonsense about her, she had even been consulted on delicate affairs; and more than once, her unsuspected finger had been busy in other people’s pies!) “I’ve only got a few days,” he began. “Hullo, here’s your train! Why, it’s gone mad, it’s punctual! I’ll look after you all right--let me have your dressing-case and traps. Come on,” and before the unfortunate lady could protest he had seized upon her bag and was running along the platform. “Where’s Tom?” she screamed as she hurried in his wake. “I particularly want to speak to him--I _must_ see him. There he is on the bridge talking to Major Bassett! Oh, he is _never_ in the way, when he is wanted.” “Here you are,” cried Lumley, wrenching open a door, and bundling her wraps and parcels into an empty carriage. “Got it all to yourself. Great luck!” He was really _too_ officious: Mrs. Fen’s sharp eye had detected the Countess of Hopeland in another compartment, and they could have travelled up together so sociably and comfortably. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” shouted the guard sharply: the traffic at Tatton, was insignificant, no need to delay. “I see you have a foot-warmer,” said the irrepressible Lumley. “Can I get you anything?” “If you could get hold of Tom,” standing up as she spoke; “it’s most important!” Tom by this time was approaching at the double, but the train was moving too. “I say, can’t I give him your message?” asked Lumley as he kept pace beside the carriage door. “No, no, no!” snapped the lady with irritable impatience, and it seemed to the good-natured and bewildered young man, that the last look he received from Mrs. Fen, had been positively malignant and menacing!