“Once,” offering his hand to Hermon. “Delighted to see you again. I hear you’ve made a hit already. My cousin tells me his friend is charmed with your way of grappling with her case.” “Did you take her by the shoulders?” asked Hal wickedly, rubbing her own. “No,” Lord Denton told her. “He was very grave indeed. You must give him his due, Miss Pritchard. You’ve seen him grave yourself, haven’t you now?” “Yes; and he looked like a boiled owl. On the whole, I prefer him imbecile.” Alymer turned on her threateningly, but she slipped behind the other two, saying: “Have you met these also, Lord Denton. Mr. St. Quintin, of Shoreditch, and my cousin, Dick Bruce, poet, novelist, and mother’s help.” Denton shook hands with them genially, and then Lorraine came back, and they all followed her to the dining-room. The repast was a very gay one. Every one was in the best of spirits, and, which is more important still, all were in attune, and there was no dissentient note. Hal was perhaps the gayest, and Lord Denton found himself watching her almost if he were seeing her for the first time. She seemed to him to have developed amazingly in the few months since he last met her, but he supposed girls of her age often developed quickly. Yet even then it seemed a little strange that the merry, rather crude young typist, as he had regarded her before, should so easily appear a sparkling, distinguished guest. He could not help a little mental comparision with Lorraine, not in any way to the latter’s detriment, but with a vague thought at the back of his mind concerning her and Hermon. Lorraine would always be beautiful: her whole face and form were modelled on lines that would stand the ravages of many years; and for him she would ever be one of the dearest of women; but could she match Hal’s young, vigorous, independence, that was very likely to prove more attractive than a generously given devotion? Men, like women, are drawn to an indifference that piques them; and he, man of the world that he was, foresaw a strong irresistible attraction about Hal’s spirited independence. But, on the other hand, Lorraine was intensely sympathetic and understanding, as well as beautiful; and it seemed strange indeed if any man she chose to enslave could resist her. He watched Hermon bend his fair head down to her dark one, with an affectionate, protective air, that was very becoming to him; and observed that with Hal it was all sparring, and told himself Lorraine had nothing to fear. They toasted Hermon on his brief, and on the laurel wreath Dick announced he already perceived sprouting on his manly brow. Hal said it was only a daisy chain, or the halo of a cherubim; and the laurels were rightly sprouting on Dick’s brow as a novelist.