"Rossett, Guy Rossett, of course, I remember you now perfectly. You were with me at Harrow for one term. You came into Brogden's House just as I was leaving." And then Guy remembered too. "Of course, I recollect now. I thought your face was familiar to me. You were the head of the house, and I was your fag. A graceless little cub, I fancy." Farquhar laughed genially. "No, I fancy you were an awful decent little chap while I was there. I can't vouch for you after my restraining influence was removed." There was a little more conversation, and then Mr Farquhar returned to his foreign friend. "Who the deuce has he got with him?" growled the General, almost under his breath. "Maurice is an awfully clever fellow, and they say is one of the most rising members of the junior bar, but he is awfully fond of Bohemian society. That long-haired chap he has got with him. Well, he looks like an anarchist." Guy Rossett laughed. "I fancy I know who he is, General; in the Foreign Office, like your nephew, we get to know some queer people. He is a Spaniard by birth, but English by adoption. He is a well-known journalist in Fleet Street. But he is by no means an anarchist; he is dead against them." The General ruminated. He was the most insular of insular Britons. He hated all persons of other nations. It annoyed him that his nephew should be in the company of this long-haired foreigner. "It is time this old country of ours closed its doors to this kind of gentry," he said, in a decided voice, as he drained his glass of champagne. Lady Mary smiled. How very much he resembled her own father. The same obstinate views, with, at bottom, the same kind heart. The next morning, the little party of three saw the young diplomatist off at the station. Guy held his sweetheart very close when he gave her his farewell kiss. "I say, dearest, you will write every day, won't you?" And Isobel nodded her dark head. "Of course, dear, pages and pages." "And I say, that good-looking cousin of yours we met last night! He has never made love to you, has he?" Isobel laughed gaily. "Dear old Maurice! Why he used to carry me about when I was a baby. And dad and I are awfully fond of him. He is just a big, dear elder brother." "I don't quite know that I like a big, dear elder brother, when he happens to be a cousin," replied Guy, a little grimly. Isobel smiled her most delightful smile. "Oh, Guy, I believe you are really jealous, and of poor old Maurice, of all people. My dear boy, he only lives for his work; he is a barrister, you know, and is made up of parchment." "He looked very human when he shook hands with you," remarked Guy drily. "I fancy there's not much parchment where you are concerned." "Silly boy, to even think of such things. And what about me, when you get to Madrid? I am told the Spanish ladies are very fascinating. What chance shall I have against them."