The speaker, a slightly built man, just beyond the vague line of “young,” glanced up with his dark, somewhat sombre and yet softly cynical eyes at the face of his companion who was driving.  This companion was unmistakably young, and there was not a trace of cynicism in his grey-blue eyes which looked out upon the rain and mist with pleasant cheerfulness.  He was neither particularly fair nor dark; but there was a touch of brighter colour than usual in his short, crisp hair; and no woman had yet found fault with the moustache or the lips beneath.  And yet, though Stafford Orme’s face was rather too handsome than otherwise, the signs of weakness which one sees in so many good-looking faces did not mar it; indeed, there was a hint of strength, not to say sternness, in the well-cut lips, a glint of power and masterfulness in the grey eyes and the brows above them which impressed one at first sight; though when one came to know him the impression was soon lost, effaced by the charm for which Stafford was famous, and which was perpetually recruiting his army of friends.

No doubt it is easy to be charming when the gods have made you good to look upon, and have filled your pockets with gold into the bargain.  Life was a pageant of pleasure to Stafford Orme:  no wonder he sang and smiled upon the way and had no lack of companions.

Even this man beside him, Edmund Howard, whose name was a by-word for cynicism, who had never, until he had met Stafford Orme, gone an inch out of his self-contained way to please or benefit a fellow-man, was the slave of the young fellow’s imperious will, and though he made burlesque complaint of his bondage, did not in his heart rebel against it.

Stafford laughed shortly as he looked at the rain-swept hills round which the two good horses were taking the well-appointed phaeton.

“Oh, I knew you would come,” he said.  “It was just this way.  You know the governor wrote and asked me to come down to this new place of his at Bryndermere—­”

“Pardon me, Stafford; you forget that I have been down South—­where I wish to Heaven I had remained!—­and that I only returned yesterday afternoon, and that I know nothing of these sudden alarums and excursions of your esteemed parent.”

“Ah, no; so you don’t!” assented Stafford; “thought I’d told you:  shall have to tell you now; I’ll cut it as short as possible.”  He paused for a moment and gently drew the lash of the whip over the wet backs of the two horses who were listening intently to the voice of their beloved master.  “Well, three days ago I got a letter from my father; it was a long one; I think it’s the first long letter I ever received from him.  He informed me that for some time past he has been building a little place on the east side of Bryndermere Lake, that he thought it would be ready by the ninth of this month; and would I go down—­or is it up?—­there and meet him, as he was coming to England and would go straight there from