Mrs. Ingleton was obviously lashing herself to fury.  She could not imagine why, not realizing at that stage that she was the victim of a jealousy so fierce as to amount almost to a mania.  She wondered if her father were watching them from the terrace, and contemplated getting up to join him, but hesitated to do so, reflecting that it might appear like flight.  At the same time she did not see why she should remain as a target for her step-mother’s invective, and she had just decided upon departure when Bliss, the butler, opened the door with his own peculiarly quiet flourish and announced, “Captain Preston!”

A clean-shaven little man, with a horsey appearance about the legs which evening-dress wholly failed to conceal, entered, and instinctively Sylvia rose to receive him.

Mrs. Ingleton stopped short and stared as they met in the middle of the room.

“Hullo, Sylvia!” said the little man, and stamped forward as if he had just dismounted after a long ride.  He had a loud voice and an assertive manner, and Mrs. Ingleton gazed at him in frozen surprise.

Sylvia turned towards her.  “May I introduce Mr. Preston—­the M.F.H.?” Her tone was cold.  If the newcomer’s advent had been a welcome diversion it obviously gave her no pleasure.

Preston, however, plainly did not stand in need of any encouragement.  He strode up to Mrs. Ingleton, confronting her with aggressive self-assurance, “Delighted to meet you, madam.  You are Sylvia’s step-mother, I presume?  I hope we shall be more nearly connected before long.  Anyone belongin’ to Sylvia has my highest esteem.  She has the straightest seat on a horse of any woman I know.  Ingleton and I between us taught her all she knows about huntin’, and she does us credit, by gad!”

He winked at Mrs. Ingleton as he ended, and Sylvia bit her lip.  Mrs. Ingleton, however, held out her hand.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Preston!  You are most welcome.  Sylvia, my dear, will you find the cigarettes?”

Sylvia took a box from the table and handed it to him.  He took it from her, openly pinching her fingers as he did so, and offered it to her instead.

“After you, Cherry-ripe!  You’re lookin’ spiffin’ to-night, hey, Mrs. Ingleton?  What do you think of your new daughter?”

Mrs. Ingleton was smiling.  “I am only wondering what all you young men can be about,” she said.  “I should have thought one of you would have captured her long ago.”

Sylvia turned round, disgust in every line, and walked to the window.  “I will find Dad,” she said.

Preston looked after her, standing with legs wide apart on the hearth-rug.  “It’s none of my fault, I assure you,” he said.  “I’ve been tryin’ to rope her for the last two years.  But she’s so damn’ shy.  Can’t get near her, by George.”

“Really?” smiled Mrs. Ingleton.  “Perhaps you have not gone quite the right way to work.  I think I shall have to take a hand in the game and see what I can do.”