‘Who may we be?’ wondered Jerome, as he hesitated. There was not much cordiality in the invitation, but a sedate sincerity, as if Mr. Bolton performed a duty which might have been pleasanter, and might also have been more unpleasant. One thing was quite certain. Whether he would be glad or not to have Wellfield at his own home, he would be very sorry to see him at the inn. He saw the hesitation, and repeated his invitation, this time more cordially. ‘You are very kind,’ said Wellfield. ‘It looks so very much as if I had come on purpose——’ ‘I do not know why you came, I am sure, but I trust you will stay with us. Since you are so near Burnham, it would be foolish to go back to Manchester without at least making an effort to seek some employment there. And there is no one in the world who knows so much about Burnham as I do.’ Jerome thanked him, and accepted the invitation. Mr. Bolton rose. ‘That is settled,’ he remarked. ‘Come into the garden, and we’ll find Nita there.’ ‘Who is Nita?’ again speculated Wellfield, and he followed his host without a word. Mr. Bolton took his way through the garden towards the avenue by the river, which was called ‘the river walk.’ As they entered this walk, Jerome perceived in the distance an arrangement of chairs and a table, some light shawls, books, parasols, and two female figures, seated in low cane chairs, under the trees. Both these ladies were reading, and apparently engrossed in their books. The footsteps of the men along the soft grass made no sound, and neither lady looked up until Mr. Bolton, in a voice from which all hardness and abruptness appeared to have melted suddenly, said: ‘Nita!’ Then both the parasols were lowered, and Jerome saw that a very young lady, and a decidedly elderly one, sat side by side beneath the trees. The young lady looked first at both of them, then at Wellfield in particular, and as she slowly rose, with a faint, half-smile, her face seemed all large brown eyes. As he came nearer, he saw that she had, too, a beautiful forehead, broad, and rather low; red lips which looked as if they would readily smile, and pale cheeks. He saw that she only just attained medium height; that she was slight, yet not thin in figure, and graceful, in a certain quaint, picturesque, unconventional style—a great contrast to the stiff, upright, elderly figure beside her, with a grey keen face, compressed lips, and piercing, cold grey eyes. The second lady made no attempt at rising. She sat perfectly still, and bolt upright, folded her mittened hands one over the other upon her book, and looked at Jerome Wellfield in a manner which he felt to be pointed. ‘Nita,’ repeated Mr. Bolton, ‘I’ve brought you a visitor; Mr. Jerome Wellfield, who will stay with us a short time. My daughter, Mr. Wellfield, and my cousin, Miss Margaret Shuttleworth.’ Nita Bolton smiled, shook hands with the guest, and said, ‘How do you do?’