"Cynthia, this is Captain Rames," said Isaac Benoliel, and however imperious a mood Cynthia might have shown to him, she had reserved none of it for Captain Rames. Her eyes swept over him swiftly with the shy and eager look to which he had grown accustomed: she gave him her hand. "I am very glad to meet you," she said impulsively, "because--" and she halted suddenly upon the word, with the color like a rose in her cheeks, "I suppose that you are tired of congratulations." Captain Rames expanded: he laughed genially, a fastidious critic might have said too noisily. "By no means," he exclaimed. "Indeed, Miss Daventry, you may lay it on with a trowel." "I am not prepared to do that," answered Cynthia, and though she spoke lightly, her voice was guarded, and even in the eager eyes there was a constant watchfulness. Eight months had passed since Cynthia had sat by the bedside of Robert Daventry and listened to his instructions. She had taken Diana Royle to live with her as he had bidden, though she had taken her reluctantly. She had spent nearly all that time at the white house upon the London road, in spite of Mrs. Royle's repeated suggestion that Beaulieu, or preferably Cap D'Ail in the south of France would be more satisfactory places for wintering. Diana Royle was glad to be relieved from her genteel penury in Sussex Gardens, Kensington, but she had no liking for the country. Cynthia, however, was deaf to her hints. She lived for a while in solitude, broken only by the companionship of the few neighbors with whom she was most intimate. The swift deaths of the two old people who had so long lived for her and in her, left her desolate and inclined ever regretfully to search back across her life for occasions in which she had failed of kindness toward them, or hurt them by forgetfulness. She was young, however, and with no taint of morbidness. The sense of desolation passed, and Diana Royle began to urge a new plan. "You ought to take a house in town for the season, Cynthia. I know of one in an excellent position, which would just suit you. It's in Curzon Street, and the right end of the street, one of those nice, flat-fronted houses, old outside and tiled bath-rooms inside. I happened, I think, to see an advertisement of it to-day." Mrs. Royle handed the newspaper to Cynthia, looked it over. "We might think of it," she said. "I am sure neither Mr. nor Mrs. Daventry would have wished you to bury yourself always in the country." "That's true," said Cynthia. "My father looked forward to my taking a house in town." "I don't think you could do better than this, dear," said Diana Royle. "I know the house quite well by sight." "Well, we'll think of it," said Cynthia. Mrs. Royle suppressed a shrug of irritation. "You will find the house will be snapped up, dear, if you take too long thinking of it," she said with asperity. Cynthia looked at her with innocent eyes.