A few days later, the two young men walked to Rosemount. It was a villa sort of house, set in a small garden, very carefully kept. The windows were ornamented with boxes of flowers. Small as the establishment was, there was an air of elegance about it, an elegance perhaps of restricted means but of refined taste. Pomfret nudged his senior officer. "I say, they've turned it into a very decent sort of little crib, haven't they? I should say that is due to the girl." Hugh laughed. "Perhaps it is the brother after all. He might be an artist, you know. Artists are often very rum-looking chaps." "Artist be hanged," said Pomfret emphatically. "I'll bet you a fiver he isn't an artist, whatever he is. A `bookie' or a `bookie's' tout, more likely." At the end of this short colloquy, they had reached the hall door. A very smart maidservant, in a becoming cap and apron, opened it. In answer to their inquiry, Miss Burton was in. They were shown into the drawing-room. The young mistress of the house was reclining in an easy-chair; an open book lay on her lap. She advanced towards them with that peculiar air of self-possession which had so impressed Hugh on his first meeting in the tea-shop. A hostess with years of social experience could not have been more at her ease than this young girl. "How nice of you to come, after that very vague invitation," she said, in her clear, silvery voice. She addressed Murchison first, and then turned swiftly to Pomfret, in whose eyes she doubtless recognised frank admiration of her peculiar attractiveness. "I know your friend is going to introduce you in proper form. But it is really quite unnecessary. I know you are Mr Pomfret. I have learned the names of all the officers from the tradespeople, also, my only friends in Blankfield. Perhaps Captain Murchison has told you what I confided to him the other day, that we are as isolated here as if we were on a desert island." Mr Pomfret sat down beside her on a small Chesterfield. From his vantage point he could gaze into the beautiful eyes, he could note the lustre of that fair, wavy hair. "A beastly shame," growled the young subaltern, at a loss for appropriate words to express the enormities of Blankfield Society. She turned away lightly, as if the subject interested her no further. "I think we will have tea. My brother is engaged in scientific pursuits. When he can tear himself away, he will join us. Captain Murchison, will you kindly ring the bell?" Truly, she had the manners of a woman of the world. She took the homage of the two men as an accomplished fact. The villadom of Blankfield could not produce such a hostess, so free from fussiness or exaggerated hospitality. You would have to go to the "county" to find her parallel. The two men exchanged appreciative glances. Whatever her origin, Miss Burton could shine in any circle in which she found herself permanently, or temporarily, located.