him, and, by George, they carried the man in!  They found the drawing-room downstairs empty, no furniture in it, or next to none—­turned it into a bedroom in no time.  Undershaw telegraphed for a couple of nurses—­and when Melrose came home next day—­tableau!  There was a jolly row!  Undershaw enjoyed it.  I’d have given anything in the world to be there.  And Melrose’ll have to stick it out they say for weeks and weeks—­the fellow’s so badly hurt—­and—­”

Lydia interrupted him.

“What did Doctor Undershaw say of him to-day?”

She bent forward across the tea-table, speaking earnestly.

Tatham looked at her in surprise.

“The report is better.  Had you heard about it?”

“I must have seen him just before the accident—­”

“Lydia!  I never understood,” said Mrs. Penfold rather bewildered.

Lydia explained that she too had seen Doctor Undershaw that morning, on his way to the Tower, in Whitebeck village, and he had told her the story.  She was particularly interested, because of the little meeting by the river, which she described in a few words.  Twenty minutes or so after her conversation with the stranger the accident must have happened.

Mrs. Penfold meanwhile was thinking, “Why didn’t Lydia tell me all this on the drive?” Then she remembered one of Lydia’s characteristics—­a kind of passionate reticence about things that moved her.  Had the fate then of the young man—­whom she could only have seen for a few minutes—­touched her so much?

Lady Tatham had listened attentively to Lydia’s story—­the inner mind of her all the time closely and critically observant of the story-teller, her beauty, the manner and quality of it, her movements, her voice.  Her voice particularly.  When the girl’s little speech came to an end, Victoria still had the charm of it in her ears.

“Does any one know the man’s name?” she inquired.

“I forgot to ask Undershaw,” said Tatham.

Lydia supplied the information.  The name of the young man was Claude Faversham.  He seemed to have no relations whatever who could come and nurse him.

“Claude Faversham!” Tatham turned upon her with astonishment.  “I say!  I know a Claude Faversham.  I was a term with him at Oxford—­at least if it’s the same man.  Tall?—­dark?—­good-looking?”

Lydia thought the adjectives fitted.

“He had the most beautiful ring!” she added.  “I noticed it when he was tying up my easel.”

“A ring!” cried Tatham, wrinkling up his forehead.  “By George, that is odd!  I remember Faversham’s ring perfectly.  An uncle gave it him—­an old Professor at Oxford, who used to collect things.  My tutor sent me to a lecture once, when I was in for schools.  Mackworth—­that was the old boy’s name—­was lecturing, and Faversham came down to help him show his cases.  Faversham’s own ring was supposed to be something special, and Mackworth talked no end about it.  Goodness!—­so that’s the man.  Of course I must go and see him!—­ask after him anyway.”