Gifford entered the well-remembered hall and made his way, almost in a dream, to the ball-room, where many hunting men in pink made the scene unusually gay.  Unable for the moment to catch sight of Kelson, he had to introduce himself to his host, who had heard of his mishap and gave him a cheerily sympathetic welcome.  Richard Morriston was a pleasant-looking man of about five or six-and-thirty, the last man, Gifford thought, he would bear a grudge against for possessing the old home of the Giffords.

“I’m afraid you must look upon me rather in the light of an intruder here,” Morriston said pleasantly.

“A very acceptable one so far as I am concerned,” Gifford responded with something more than empty civility.

“It is very kind of you to say so,” his host rejoined.  “Anyhow the least I can do is to ask you with all sincerity to make yourself free of the place while you are in the neighbourhood.  Edith,” he called to a tall, handsome girl who was just passing on a man’s arm, “this is Mr. Gifford, who knows Wynford much better than we do.”

Miss Morriston left her partner and held out her hand.  “We were so sorry to hear of your annoying experience,” she said.  “These railway people are too stupid.  I am so glad you retrieved your luggage in time to come on to us.”

Gifford was looking at her with some curiosity during her speech, and quickly came to the conclusion that Kelson’s description of her had certainly not erred on the side of exaggeration.  She looked divinely handsome in her ball-dress of a darkish shade of blue, relieved by a bunch of roses in her corsage and a single diamond brooch.  Statuesque, too statuesque, Kelson had called her; certainly her manner and bearing had a certain cold stateliness, but Gifford had penetration enough to see that behind the reserve and the society tone of her welcome there might easily be a depth of feeling which his friend with a lesser knowledge of human nature never suspected.  An interesting girl, decidedly, Gifford concluded as he made a suitable acknowledgment of her greeting, and, I fancy, my friend Harry takes a rather too superficial view of her character, he thought, as strolling off in search of Kelson, he found himself watching his hostess from across the room with more than ordinary interest.

He soon encountered Kelson coming out of a gaily decorated passage which he knew led to the old tower.  He had a pretty girl on his arm, tall and fair, but with none of Miss Morriston’s dignified coldness.  This girl had a sunny, laughing face, and Gifford thought he understood why his friend had not been enthusiastic over the probable Lady Painswick.

Kelson, receiving him with delight, introduced him, with an air of proprietorship it seemed, to his companion, Miss Tredworth.

“Have you been exploring the old tower?” Gifford asked.

“We’ve been sitting out there,” Kelson answered with a laugh.  “They have converted the lower rooms into quite snug retreats.”