“I suppose the young lady we saw with you this morning is your sister?”

With all his natural simplicity, Stafford was a man of the world, and he did not redden or look embarrassed by the suddenness of the question and the direct gaze of the luminous eyes.

“No,” he said.  “I have neither sister nor brother—­only my father.  She was a friend.”

“Oh,” she said; then after a pause:  “She was very pretty.”

Stafford nodded.  Like a flash floated before him the exquisite loveliness of Ida Heron.

“Do you think so?” he said, with affected indifference.

“Why, yes; don’t you?” she retorted.

“Oh, yes,” he assented; “but I didn’t know whether you would; men and women so very seldom agree upon the question of looks.  I find that most of the women I think pretty are considered next door to plain by my lady-friends.”

“Well, there can’t be any doubt as to your friend’s good looks,” she said.  “She made rather a striking, not to say startling figure perched sideways on that horse, in the pelting rain.  I suppose she is one of your neighbours?”

“Yes,” replied Stafford, as easily and casually as he could, for the face still floated before him—­“yes; but not a very near one.  Let me give you some more wine.”

“No, thanks.  Father, haven’t you nearly finished?  Mr. Orme has kept us company so nicely that we’ve been tempted to forget that we are keeping him from his guests.”

She rose, and with a peculiarly sinuous movement threw out the train of her dress, and swept languidly to the door Stafford offered her his arm and they entered the drawing-room.

Her appearance naturally caused a little sensation, for some of the men had learnt and told of the story of Stafford’s plucky arrest of the bolting horses, and the people were curious to see the father and daughter who had been rescued, and who had proved to be friends of Sir Stephen.

By a sort of tacit understanding, Lady Clausford, who was a good-natured individual, was playing the part of hostess and general chaperon, and Stafford led Miss Falconer up to her.

Before a quarter of an hour had passed Miss Falconer seemed to be quite at home in her novel surroundings; and leaning back in her chair, and slowly fanning herself, received with perfect self-possession the attentions which her beauty, her costly dress, and her still more costly jewels merited.  Presently Stafford heard Lady Clansford ask her to sing; and he went to conduct her to the piano.

“My music is upstairs in my box—­but it does not matter:  I will try and remember something,” she said.  “I wonder what you like?” She raised her eyes to his, as her fingers touched the keys.  “The simple ballad would be rather out of place, wouldn’t it?  Do you know this thing of Wagner’s?”

As she began to sing the talking died down and gradually ceased; and every eye was fixed upon her; for it was evident that she not only had an exquisite voice, but knew how to use it.  She sang like an artist, and apparently without the least effort, the liquid notes flowing from her red lips like the water of a mountain rill.