“I’m so glad!” he said simply and sincerely.  And Audrey thought:  “Is it possible to give so much pleasure to an important and wealthy man with so little trouble?”

“Yes,” she said.  “Of course you know who I really am, don’t you, Mr. Gilman?”

“I only know you’re Mrs. Moncreiff,” he answered.

“But I’m not!  Surely you’ve heard something?  Surely it’s been hinted in front of you?”

“Never!” said he.

“But haven’t you asked—­about my marriage, for instance?”

“To ask might have been to endanger your secret,” he said.

“I see!” she murmured.  “How frightfully loyal you are, Mr. Gilman!  I do admire loyalty.  Well, I dare say very, very few people do know.  So I’ll tell you.  That’s my home over there.”  And she pointed to Flank Hall, whose chimneys could just be seen over the bank.

“I admit that I had thought so,” said Mr. Gilman.

“But naturally that was your home as a girl, before your marriage.”

“I’ve never been married, Mr. Gilman,” she said.  “I’m only what the French call a jeune fille.”

His face changed; he seemed to be withdrawing alarmed into himself.

“Never—­been married?”

“Oh!  You must understand me!” she went on, with an appealing vivacity.  “I was all alone.  I was in mourning for my father and mother.  I wanted to see the world.  I just had to see it!  I expect I was very foolish, but it was so easy to put a ring on my finger and call myself Mrs. And it gave me such advantages.  And Miss Ingate agreed.  She was my mother’s oldest friend....  You’re vexed with me.”

“You always seemed so wise,” Mr. Gilman faltered.

“Ah!  That’s only the effect of my forehead!”

“And yet, you know, I always thought there was something very innocent about you, too.”

“I don’t know what that was,” said Audrey.  “But honestly I acted for the best.  You see I’m rather rich.  Supposing I’d only gone about as a young marriageable girl—­what frightful risks I should have run, shouldn’t I?  Somebody would be bound to have married me for my money.  And look at all I should have missed—­without this ring!  I should never have met you in Paris, for instance, and we should never have had those talks....  And—­and there’s a lot more reasons—­I shall tell you another time—­about Madame Piriac and so on.  Now do say you aren’t vexed!”

“I think you’ve been splendid,” he said, with enthusiasm.  “I think the girls of to-day are splendid!  I’ve been a regular old fogey, that’s what it is.”

“Now there’s one thing I want you not to do,” Audrey proceeded.  “I want you not to alter the way you talk to me.  Because I’m really just the same girl I was last night.  And I couldn’t bear you to change.”

“I won’t!  I won’t!  But of course——­”

“No, no!  No buts.  I won’t have it.  Do you know why I told you just this afternoon?  Well, partly because you were so perfectly sweet last night.  And partly because I’ve got a favour to ask you, and I wouldn’t ask it until I’d told you.”