At length the evening ended, and the guests gradually dispersed. Mr. Cuthbert walked across the road to his vicarage, still chuckling to himself as he thought of the general discomfiture caused by his question. The musical old gentleman returned to his home revolving a startling new idea; after all, might not the Raeburns and such people be very much like the rest of the world? Were they not probably as susceptible to pain and pleasure, to comfort and discomfort, to rudeness and civility? He regretted very much that he had not broken the miserably uncomfortable silence at dinner. Donovan Farrant and his wife were already far from Greyshot, driving along the quiet country road to Oakdene Manor. “A lovely girl,” Mrs. Farrant was saying. “I should like to know her better. Tonight I had the feeling somehow that she was purposely keeping on the surface of things, one came every now and then to a sort of wall, a kind of hard reserve.” “Who can wonder!” exclaimed Donovan. “I am afraid, Gladys, the old proverb will have a very fair chance of being fulfilled. That child has come out seeking wool, and as likely as not she'll go home shorn.” “Society can be very cruel!” signed Gladys. “I did so long to get to her after dinner; but Lady Caroline kept me, I do believe, purposely.” “Lady Caroline and Mr. Cuthbert will little dream of the harm they have done,” said Donovan. “I think I understand as I never understood before the burning indignation of that rebuke to the Pharisees 'Full well ye reject the commandment of god that ye may keep your own traditions.'” In the meantime there was dead silence in the Fane-Smiths' carriage, an ominous silence. There was an unmistakable cloud on Mr. Fane-Smith's face; he had been exceedingly annoyed at what had taken place, and with native perversity, attributed it all to Erica. His wife was miserable. She felt that her intended kindness had proved a complete failure; she was afraid of her husband's clouded brow, still more afraid of her niece's firmly closed mouth, most afraid of all at the thought of Lady Caroline's displeasure. Nervous and overwrought, anxious to conciliate all parties, and afraid of making matters worse, she timidly went into Erica's room, and after beating about the bush for a minute or two, plunged rashly into the sore subject. “I am so sorry, dear, about tonight,” she said. “I wish it could have been prevented.” Erica, standing up straight and tall in her velveteen dress, with a white shawl half thrown back from her shoulders, looked to her aunt terribly dignified and uncompromising. “I can't say that I thought them courteous,” she replied. “It was altogether unfortunate,” said Mrs. Fane-Smith, hurriedly. “I hoped your name would not transpire; I ought to have suggested the change to you before, but--” “What change?” asked Erica, her forehead contracting a little.