“I am going to Lady Fitzharford’s to-morrow afternoon to try over some music with her,” she said, hesitatingly.

“Ah, yes; Lady Fitzharford is a good friend of mine,” he said.  “Shall you be there at, say, four?”

“Yes,” said Ida in a low voice.  “Did you say that Mr. Orme—­Lord Highcliffe is well?”

“Oh, yes; he is all right now,” replied Howard; “he has been ill—­a fever of some kind or other, I believe—­but he has recovered; he is a monster of strength, as you may have heard.  But I am afraid he is very unhappy:  something on what he calls his mind—­he is not very intellectual, you know—­”

Ida shot an indignant glance at him which made Howard chuckle inwardly.

—­“But the best, the noblest of good fellows, I assure you, Miss Heron.  I’d give anything to see him happy.  Ah, here comes a gentleman with hurried gait and distracted countenance; he is looking for his partner; alas! it is you!  We meet, then, at Lady Fitzharford’s to-morrow.  I will bring my friend’s letter; but I do sincerely hope it won’t bore you!”

He bowed his adieux and left her, and left the house; for the ball had no further interest for him.  All the way home he pondered over the case.  That she loved Stafford, he had not the very least doubt; her eyes, her sudden blushes and colour, her voice had betrayed her.

“He has loved her all the time; and I am a purblind ass not to have seen it!” he said to himself, with cynical self-contempt, as he climbed up to his rooms.

They were modest but comfortable rooms in Picadilly—­and he struck a match before he opened the door; but it was not necessary for him to have got a light, for there was one in the room already, and by it he saw a long-limbed figure which had been sitting in his easy-chair, but which rose and exclaimed: 

“Howard!”

Howard held his breath for a moment, then said, with exaggerated calm.

“I’m glad you found the cigars and the whiskey, Stafford.  Have you been waiting long:  sorry to keep you.”

Howard laughed as he wrung his friend’s hand.

“I thought I should surprise you, old man; but I flattered myself,” said Stafford.

“Nothing surprises me; but I’ll admit to being rather pleased at seeing you,” drawled Howard, pushing him gently buck in the chair.  “Have you—­er—­walked from Australia, or flown?”

Stafford stared.

“Oh, I see!  You mean I came so quickly on my letter?  I started directly after I posted it, but lost the mail at Southampton.  I—­I got a restless fit, and was obliged to come.”

“Got it now?” drawled Howard.  “Or perhaps the journey has cooled you down.  Have you eaten?  I can get something—­”

“Yes, yes,” said Stafford, rather impatiently.  “Got dinner at the hotel.  I came on here at once:  heard you’d gone to a dance, and thought I’d wait.  I want you to do something for me, Howard—­I’ll tell you all my news some other time—­not that there’s much to tell:  I’m well and nourishing, as you see.  I want you to go down to Bryndermere.  I dare not go myself—­not yet.  I want you to get all the information you can about—­about a lady:  Miss Heron of Herondale—­”