"How are you, Mr. Vernon?" she asked in her best society manner, and then dropped her voice to a confidential whisper, "I should have called at your office to-morrow had you not come." "I am quite well, thank you," replied Vernon, for the benefit of the surrounding guests, and lowered his voice likewise: "Any news, good or bad?" "Yes; both. Wait till everyone goes," she said softly, and again spoke gracefully in her character of hostess. "You poor man, you really must have a cup of tea. Go to Lucy and ask nicely." Vernon needed no second command, but thrust his way through a crowd of well-dressed people to find a bamboo table covered with tea-things, over which a pretty, fresh-coloured damsel presided. She received him with a shy blush, which made her look like a dewy rose. Lucy Corsoon could not be called lovely, nor would she have attracted attention in any marked degree. A bright, sweet English girl was all she claimed to be, and, having the bloom of youth, she really appeared more charming than she really was. In a very plain white frock and without a single ornament, she looked like a modest violet, almost hidden by its leaves. The ardent gaze in her lover's dark eyes made her blush more than ever as she handed him a cup of tea. "Without sugar," she said in a gentle voice; "I know your tastes." "Who else should?" inquired Vernon smiling, and sipped his Bohea. "This tea is delightful and exactly what a thirsty man requires." "I hope you are hungry also. Mr. Hest, please pass the cakestand to Mr. Vernon." The lover wheeled when the name was mentioned, to find himself facing the counterpart of Ida's companion. He would have guessed the relationship even if Lucy had held her peace. Mr. Hest smiled at the amazed look of the young man, and swung forward the bamboo cakestand with a soft laugh. "Don't say what you are going to say, Mr. Vernon," he remarked pleasantly. "I know exactly how astonished you are to see that I am so like my sister." "You are indeed," breathed Vernon, mechanically taking bread and butter. "I should have taken you for Miss Hest in disguise but for----" he hesitated. "But for this scar?" finished Hest, laying a finger on a cicatrice which ran in a thin crimson line from the right temple to the corner of the mouth. "I got that in Paris years ago; the knife of an Apache scored me in this way. It is just as well, if only to distinguish me from Frances. I rarely come to London, but when I do everyone stares at me, as you did." Mr. Hest shrugged his shoulders. "It's rather a nuisance being a twin." "You are not so tall as your sister," ventured Vernon, while Lucy laughed at the idle jest of the Yorkshire squire. "There's very little difference. Frances looks taller because she wears petticoats. If I dressed in her clothes and could hide this," he laid his finger again on the scar, "you would not be able to tell the difference." "Your voices are different," said Vernon after a pause.