He was minded to dine in privacy; but he was no coward, and the inclination was dismissed as unworthy. So he dressed with care, reached the crowded dining-room rather late, and was allotted to a small table near a window. In that particular window was a party of six, and among them were Marten and the girl. She raised her eyes when Power entered, and a look of recognition came into them. On her right sat a small, polished, olive-skinned man, who seemed to be more engrossed in her company than she in his. The faces of these three were clearly visible from Power's place; the others, two women and a man, were not so much in evidence. He strove to catch some of the girl's accents; but she spoke but little, and that in a low tone. She gave him the impression of being among people whom she disliked, but whose presence had to be endured. Once or twice she addressed Marten, and then her manner reminded him more than ever of her mother. To all appearance, father and daughter were wrapped up in each other, and Power knew not whether to rejoice or be sad because of it. Martin looked old and worn. He showed every one of his sixty years. The burden of finance may be even weightier than that of empire. Power's mind ran back to the night, just twenty years before, when he sat at a table in another hotel and found Nancy Marten gazing at him. Skies and times may change, but not manners. He had met mother and daughter under precisely similar conditions, save that he was alone now, and a complete stranger to the girl. Marten was so taken up with his friends that he gave no attention to others in the room. Perhaps he had trained himself to that useful habit. At any rate, he glanced Power's way only once, and obviously regarded him as one among the well-dressed throng. Later, in a lounge where people smoked, chatted, drank coffee, or played bridge to the accompaniment of an excellent band, Power contrived to pass close behind the girl's chair. She was with one of the women now, and talking animatedly. Yes, she had her mother's voice! What long dormant chords of memory it touched! How it vibrated through heart and brain! Nancy--dead and yet speaking! Next morning the car, in chastened mood, bore him smoothly and quickly away through the Hampshire pines and the blossom-laden hedges of Somerset. He reached Dacre's house early in the afternoon, and was somewhat surprised when his friend suggested that they should start forthwith on a rambling tour up the Wye Valley and thus to the lakes by way of North Wales. This spirit of unrest was so unlike Dacre's wonted air of repose that it evoked a question. "I have just come here to escape from the ceaseless rush of things," said Power. "Why do you want to bustle me off so promptly?" "I thought a change of scene might be good for both of us," was the offhand answer.