Poor Bill Donnington!  Of course he was devoted to Bubbles—­her slave, in fact.  Blanche had only seen him once; she had thought him sensible, undistinguished, commonplace.  She knew that he was the third or fourth son of a worthy North-country parson—­in other words, he “hadn’t a bob.”  He was, of course, the last man Bubbles would ever think of marrying.  Bubbles, like most of her set, was keenly alive to the value of money.  Bubbles, as likely as not, would make a set, half in fun, half in earnest, at James Tapster!

To tell the truth, Miss Farrow had not forgotten Bubbles when she had assented to Lionel Varick’s suggestion that rich, if dull-witted, James Tapster should be included in the party.

* * * * *

In what was called the moat garden of Wyndfell Hall, twilight was deepening into night.  But Lionel Varick, who was now pacing up and down the broad path which followed the course of the moat, could still see, sharply outlined against the pale winter sky, the vision of tranquil beauty and the storehouse of archaeological and antiquarian interest which was now his home.

By his special orders the windows had been left uncurtained.  There were lights in a great number of the rooms—­indeed, the lower part of the house was brilliantly illuminated.  But as the windows in the beautiful linen-panelled hall were diamond-paned, the brilliance was softened, and there was something deliriously welcoming, almost fairy-like, in the picture the old house presented to its new owner’s eager gaze.

After a while he stayed his steps near the narrow brick bridge which spanned the moat where a carriage road connected the domain of Wyndfell Hall with the outside world, and, as he stood there in the gathering twilight, he looked a romantic figure.  Tall and well-built, he took, perhaps, an almost excessive care over his dress.  Yet there was nothing effeminate or foppish about his appearance.

A follower of that now forgotten science, phrenology, would have been impressed by Lionel Varick’s head.  It was large and well-shaped, with a great deal of almost golden hair, now showing a white thread or two, which did not, however, detract from his look of youth.  He had a fine broad forehead; deep, well-set grey eyes; and a beautiful, sensitive mouth, which he took care not to conceal with a moustache.  Thus in almost any company he would have looked striking and distinguished—­the sort of man of whom people ask, “Who is that standing over there?”

Varick was a man of moods—­subject, that is, to fits of exultation and of depression—­and yet with an amazing power of self-control, and of entirely hiding what he felt from those about him.