"Yes sir. But I am not sure whether she will receive you,--" the maid replied--"Unless you have an appointment?" "We have no appointment,"--said Lucio,--"but if you will take these cards,--" here he turned to me--"Geoffrey, give me one of yours!" I complied, somewhat reluctantly. "If you will take these cards"--he resumed--"to Miss Clare, it is just possible she may be kind enough to see us. If not, it will be our loss." He spoke so gently and with such an ingratiating manner that I could see the servant was at once prepossessed in his favour. "Step in, sir, if you please,--" she said smiling and opening the gate. He obeyed with alacrity,--and I, who a moment ago had resolved not to enter the place, found myself passively following him under an archway of sprouting young leaves and early budding jessamine into 'Lily Cottage'--which was to prove one day, though I knew it not then, the only haven of peace and security I should ever crave for,--and, craving, be unable to win! The house was much larger than it looked from the outside; the entrance-hall was square and lofty, and panelled with fine old carved oak, and the drawing-room into which we were shown was one of the most picturesque and beautiful apartments I had ever seen. There were flowers everywhere,--books,--rare bits of china,--elegant trifles that only a woman of perfect taste would have the sense to select and appreciate,--on one or two of the side-tables and on the grand piano were autograph-portraits of many of the greatest celebrities in Europe. Lucio strolled about the room, making soft comments. "Here is the Autocrat of all the Russias," he said, pausing before a fine portrait of the Tsar--"Signed by the Imperial hand too. Now what has the 'feminine twaddler' done to deserve that honour I wonder! Here in strange contrast, is the wild-haired Paderewski,--and beside him the perennial Patti,--there is Her Majesty of Italy, and here we have the Prince of Wales,--all autographed likenesses. Upon my word, Miss Clare seems to attract a great many notabilities around her without the aid of hard cash. I wonder how she does it, Geoffrey?"--and his eyes sparkled half maliciously--"Can it be a case of genius after all? Look at those lilies!" and he pointed to a mass of white bloom in one of the windows--"Are they not far more beautiful creatures than men and women? Dumb--yet eloquent of purity!--no wonder the painters choose them as the only flowers suitable for the adornment of angels." As he spoke the door opened, and the woman we had seen on the lawn entered, carrying her toy terrier on one arm. Was she Mavis Clare? or some-one sent to say that the novelist could not receive us? I wondered silently, looking at her in surprise and something of confusion,--Lucio advanced with an odd mingling of humility and appeal in his manner which was new to me.