‘I have come to England at last, to enter the bosom of my family. My father, to the relief of everybody, has entered Abraham’s. Don’t think me flippant, but one cannot always mourn, not even for the worst of parents. Meanwhile, here am I in London, buying frocks so as not to disgrace my family. When can I come to you? As soon as you like. A wire will fetch me. I understand that your honeymoon is nearly over, so I don’t suppose a casual third will be much of a nuisance by now. And, anyhow, I have nowhere else to go. I am dying to see Brakelond, too, and the ducal great-uncle. Aunt Agnes and I have had quite enough of each other in a week, but she has been doing her duty nobly by the returned prodigal. Really, she is too weird for words. I believe she thinks New Zealand is the capital of Australia, or else the other way round. ‘Your affectionate and only cousin, ‘ISABEL DARRELL, OF THE MORTIMERS.’ Kingston found himself amply justified in his dislike. Underbred, loud, vulgar, evidently Isabel Darrell was a very undesirable specimen of the colonial. Her clashing presence would teach him anew to appreciate the quiet perfection of Gundred. He returned the letter with a laugh. ‘So very odd--yes?’ said Gundred; ‘just like her poor dear mother. Aunt Isabel was just the same--so flaunting, and independent, and unconventional. Isabel must be the oddest girl.’ ‘She sounds a shocking bounder,’ said Kingston. ‘She is my cousin, dear,’ said Gundred, very gently, after a slight pause. The emphasis was slight but unmistakable. Another pause followed. ‘And when are we to expect that sacrosanct person, your cousin?’ inquired Kingston, who knew nothing of that calm loyalty which people of Gundred’s sort display towards even the most despised and detested of their relations when they come up for discussion in the presence of anyone unconnected with ‘the family.’ ‘Isabel? Ring, dear, for Murchison, and I will send a wire. She will have time to catch the midday train, and we shall have her here in good time to dress for dinner. But of course she won’t be able to see poor Uncle Henry.’