An ancient man-servant appeared.  The small and delicately built lady on the step looked at him appealingly.

“I am afraid there is a box besides,” she said, like one confessing a crime.  “Not a big one—­” she added hurriedly.  “We had to leave it at the station.  The groom left word for it to be brought later.”

“Of course.  The car will bring it,” said Lord Buntingford.  “Only one box and those bags?” he asked, smiling.  “Why, that’s most moderate.  Please come in.”

And he led the way to the drawing-room.  Reassured by his kind voice and manner, Mrs. Friend tripped after him.  “What a charming man!” she thought.

It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford.  Mrs. Friend had still—­like others—­to discover that it did not take one very far.

In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly after Watteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out.  Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, went towards the tea-table, and then thought better of it.

“Perhaps you’ll pour out tea—­” he said pleasantly.  “It’ll be your function, I think—­and I always forget something.”

Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and the Georgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as though generations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best not to show the nervousness she felt.  She was very anxious to please her new employer.

“I suppose Miss Pitstone will be here before long?” she ventured, when she had supplied both the master of the house and herself.

“Twenty minutes—­” said Lord Buntingford, looking at his watch.  “Time enough for me to tell you a little more about her than I expect you know.”

And again his smile put her at ease.

She bent forward, clasping her small hands.

“Please do!  It would be a great help.”

He noticed the delicacy of the hands, and of her slender body.  The face attracted him—­its small neat features, and brown eyes.  Clearly a lady—­that was something.

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder—­if you found her a handful,” he said deliberately.

Mrs. Friend laughed—­a little nervous laugh.

“Is she—­is she very advanced?”

“Uncommonly—­I believe.  I may as well tell you candidly she didn’t want to come here at all.  She wanted to go to college.  But her mother, who was a favourite cousin of mine, wished it.  She died last autumn; and Helena promised her that she would allow me to house her and look after her for two years.  But she regards it as a dreadful waste of time.”

“I think—­in your letter—­you said I was to help her—­in modern languages—­” murmured Mrs. Friend.

Lord Buntingford shrugged his shoulders—­