“It’s dear of you to say so,” said Mary Woolcombe, “but I wish you’d prove it by asking your friends to come and see you.” “I will,” replied Olivia. But she flushed scarlet, and, as soon as she was alone, she grappled with realities. And realities nearly always have a nasty element of the ironical. She remembered the first cloud that swept over her serene soul during the honeymoon bliss of The Point. They had discussed their future domicile. Alexis had suggested the common-sense solution—“The Towers” as headquarters. She, with the schoolgirl stigma of Landsdowne House upon her, and possessed by the bitter memory of the nose-in-the-air attitude of the Blair Park crocodile—eternal symbol of social status—had revolted at the suggestion. He, the equal and companion of princes, looked on her—and, if his last crazy letter signified anything—looked still on her, as the high-born lady—the Princess of his dreams. Each, therefore, had deceived the other. She, the daughter of Gale and Trivett, auctioneers and estate agents, and so, by the unwritten law, cut off from the gentry of Medlow, had undergone agony of remorse for the sake of the son of a Tyneside operative, a boy before the mast, a common chauffeur, a man far her inferior in the social scale. No wonder he could not understand her hesitancies. Her resentment against him blazed anew. For his sake she had needlessly soiled her soul with deceit and snobbery. It was well that he had passed out of her life. “May I invite Mr. Trivett and Mr. Fenmarch to tea?” she asked. Mary Woolcombe smiled. “The house is yours, dear. That’s not a Spanish courtesy but an English fact.” So the two old gentlemen came, and Olivia entertained them in the dining-room, as she had done on the afternoon of her emancipation. She sat at the end of the comfortably laid table, and the dusty Fenmarch, with the face of an old moulting badger, drank tea, while, as before, the stout, red-gilled Trivett drank whisky and soda with his hot scones. This time, the latter explained that the whisky was a treat—forbidden by Mrs. Trivett at the domestic tea-table. They welcomed her back in the kindness of their simple hearts. They knew nothing of her separation from Triona. She had been ill and come down for rest and change. “And you look as if you need it, my dear,” said Mr. Trivett. “And some of your good father’s old port. There should still be a dozen or two of Cockburn’s ‘70 in the cellar at the present moment—unless Major Olifant has drunk it all.” Olivia laughed, for it was humorously meant. Mr. Fenmarch in the act of raising his teacup to his lips, put it down again with a sigh and shook his dusty head. “It was a great wine,” he said with a look backward into the past. “We’ll have a bottle up,” cried Olivia.