"Not a soul. The present head of the house never saw my father. The only one likely to recognize me would be the dowager Lady Dashwood, who is at the dower house. I am placing myself and my happiness entirely in your hands, my faithful old Slight, and I ask you not to betray me. Rest assured that it will all come right in time. Meanwhile, I have hurt my arm, and I require towels and soap and hot water." Slight went his way with the air of a man who dreams. He came back presently, followed by Mary Dashwood. She dressed Darnley's arm skilfully enough. The touch of her fingers was soft and soothing. She was a tender and feeling woman now, without the slightest suggestion of cold pride on her face. "I think that is all," she said quietly. "How brave and strong you are: how little you make of your courage. And yet few could have done what you did for me today. But I am forgetting that my father will be glad to see you. Let us go to the library." A tall figure rose from a mass of papers heaped on a table. Here in the library was the same restful air of calm repose, the same patrician silence that brooded over everything like the spirit of the place. A flood of sunlight, tempered by the amber and blue of the stained glass windows filled the room; the rays centered upon the tall figure with the thin white face and grey hair, standing by the table. "My daughter has been telling me everything, Mr. Darnley," Sir George said. "It was well and bravely done of you. . . . I am glad to see you in my house." Darnley murmured something appropriate; he hoped that the expression of his face was not betraying his emotions. For the change in Sir George since they had last met was startling. The old, jaunty, easy manner was gone, the straight figure was lost, the iron-grey hair was white as snow. There were deep lines of care and suffering graven on the pleasant face, a suggestion of fear, or fright, or remorse. This was a man who carried some secret in his heart. Darnley felt that he would have passed Sir George in the street unrecognized. And yet the man appeared to possess everything that made life worth living. Ralph ventured to offer some suitable comment on the house and the beauty of the surroundings. A look of infinite sadness overcame the features of Dashwood for the moment. The slender fingers clutched as if at something unseen, as the fingers of a drowning man might clutch at a straw. "Yes, it is perfect enough," he said dreamily. "A perfect house in a perfect setting. And Mary loves it even more than I do. It seems almost impossible to connect this place with sin and suffering and the sordid cares of life--what is it, Slight?" "A telegram for you, Sir George," the old butler murmured. "Is there any reply, sir?" Sir George murmured that there was no reply. He dropped the telegram in an unconcerned way upon the table, but his hand was shaking again, and his features looked terribly white and worn.