And Guy had waited for the parental consent, which had been wrung under somewhat false pretences. But he had been content to wait until his future wife would be received under proper auspices. He would not rush her down and take his father by storm, as Ticehurst would do when the time came for him to present his chorus-girl to a justly offended parent. Father and daughter sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the house in Belgrave Square. Very terribly did Lady Mary miss her beautiful gardens, her flowers, her dogs, her aviary of little songsters. She was essentially a country girl. She hated any city, with its cramped and narrow streets. Even Paris had no attractions for her. Vienna and Berlin left her cold. "You have seen Greatorex this morning, father?" she questioned when the servants had withdrawn. Lord Saxham frowned. He had realised, in this his latest visit to the Metropolis, that he was a back number. He remembered the years long ago when he was the most golden of the gilded youth. Then his name was one to conjure with. He led the revels; if it pleased him, he painted the town red. Now, except for a few ancient cronies, nobody recognised him. "Yes, I saw Greatorex," he answered gloomily. "He was always as close as wax. He is closer than ever. He comes of an infernally close family. That family has never been anything great." He was getting into his explosive vein. "Always underlings and jackals--always content to serve." "What did he say about Guy?" asked Mary softly. "Only that he was quite happy and well. He did vouchsafe to volunteer the information that some great anarchist _coup_ had failed." "Well, that was about as much as you could expect," said Mary in her quiet, gentle tones. "He is not going to give information to everybody." "To everybody?" spluttered the Earl, in his most fiery mood. "Am I everybody? I have supported this Government through thick and thin. I have backed them up through everything. Why do they withhold their confidence from me, at this important moment?" Lady Mary used all her _finesse_. She knew too well why Greatorex did not trust him. He was an open sieve. All news would filter through him in five minutes, at all his clubs, to the first acquaintance he met. "You must not blame Greatorex, dear; he carries a very heavy burden. He dare not give an incautious confidence, drop a random word." "But why this reticence to me, of all people?" thundered Lord Saxham, in his most indignant tones. "Am I not the soul of discretion? Should I betray a confidence?" Mary made no answer. She knew her father well. Privately he was the soul of honour. He would not betray a confidence wilfully. But he was loose of speech, and he was quite vain. He would drop a few hints, perhaps unconsciously, from which attentive listeners might gather much. She let the stormy ebullition pass. Then she spoke. "I wish we could hear some really authentic news of dear old Guy."