And taking Doris by the arm she led her to inspect a spacious apartment on the other side of a passage, where the Lady Alice or Lady Mary without whom Royal Highnesses do not move about the world was generally put up.

“I feel like Christopher Sly,” said Doris, surveying the scene, with her hands in her jacket pockets.  “So will she.  But never mind!”

* * * * *

Events flowed on.  Lord and Lady Dunstable came back by tea-time, bringing with them the solicitor, who was also the chief factor of their Scotch estate.  Lord Dunstable looked old and wearied.  He came to find Doris on the lawn, pressing her hand with murmured words of thanks.

“If that child Alice Wigram—­of course I remember her well!—­brings us information we can go upon, we shall be all right.  At least there’s hope.  My poor boy!  Anyway, we can never be grateful enough to you.”

As for Lady Dunstable, the large circle which gathered for tea under a group of Scotch firs talked indeed, since Franick Castle existed for that purpose, but they talked without a leader.  Their hostess sat silent and sombre, with thoughts evidently far away.  She took no notice of Meadows whatever, and his attempts to draw her fell flat.  A neighbour had walked over, bringing with him—­maliciously—­a Radical M.P. whose views on the Scotch land question would normally have struck fire and fury from Lady Dunstable.  She scarcely recognised his name, and he and the Under-Secretary launched into the most despicable land heresies under her very nose—­unrebuked.  She had not an epigram to throw at anyone.  But her eyes never failed to know where Doris Meadows was, and indeed, though no one but the two or three initiated knew why, Doris was in some mysterious but accepted way the centre of the party.  Everybody spoiled her; everybody smiled upon her.  The white tea-gown which she wore—­miracle of delicate embroidery—­had never suited Lady Dunstable; it suited Doris to perfection.  Under her own simple hat, her eyes—­and they were very fine eyes—­shone with a soft and dancing humour.  It was all absurd—­her being there—­her dress—­this tongue-tied hostess—­and these agreeable men who made much of her!  She must get Arthur out of it as soon as possible, and they would look back upon it and laugh.  But for the moment it was pleasant, it was stimulating!  She found herself arguing about the new novels, and standing at bay against a whole group of clever folk who were tearing Mr. Augustus John and other gods of her idolatry to pieces.  She was not shy; she never really had been; and to find that she could talk as well as other people—­or most other people—­even in these critical circles, excited her.  The circle round her grew; and Meadows, standing on the edge of it, watched her with astonished eyes.

* * * * *