“Very shortly.  It is a lonely place, where ghosts bear me company.  I hope that now and then, when I ask it, and when the duties of your day are ended, you will come help me exorcise them.  You shall find welcome and good wine.”  He spoke very courteously, and if he saw the humor of the situation his smile betrayed him not.

MacLean took a flower from the bowl, and plucked at its petals with nervous fingers.  “Do you mean that?” he asked at last.

Haward leaned across the table, and their eyes met.  “On my word I do,” said the Virginian.

The knocker on the house door sounded loudly, and a moment later a woman’s clear voice, followed by a man’s deeper tones, was heard in the hall.

“More guests,” said Haward lightly.  “You are a Jacobite; I drink my chocolate at St. James’ Coffee House; the gentleman approaching—­despite his friendship for Orrery and for the Bishop of Rochester—­is but a Hanover Tory; but the lady,—­the lady wears only white roses, and every 10th of June makes a birthday feast.”

The storekeeper rose hastily to take his leave, but was prevented both by Haward’s restraining gesture and by the entrance of the two visitors who were now ushered in by the grinning Juba.  Haward stepped forward.  “You are very welcome, Colonel.  Evelyn, this is kind.  Your woman told me this morning that you were not well, else”—­

“A migraine,” she answered, in her clear, low voice.  “I am better now, and my father desired me to take the air with him.”

“We return to Westover to-morrow,” said that sprightly gentleman.  “Evelyn is like David of old, and pines for water from the spring at home.  It also appears that the many houses and thronged streets of this town weary her, who, poor child, is used to an Arcady called London!  When will you come to us at Westover, Marmaduke?”

“I cannot tell,” Haward answered.  “I must first put my own house in order, so that I may in my turn entertain my friends.”

As he spoke he moved aside, so as to include in the company MacLean, who stood beside the table.  “Evelyn,” he said, “let me make known to you—­and to you, Colonel—­a Scots gentleman who hath broken his spear in his tilt with fortune, as hath been the luck of many a gallant man before him.  Mistress Evelyn Byrd, Colonel Byrd—­Mr. MacLean, who was an officer in the Highland force taken at Preston, and who has been for some years a prisoner of war in Virginia.”

The lady’s curtsy was low; the Colonel bowed as to his friend’s friend.  If his eyebrows went up, and if a smile twitched the corners of his lips, the falling curls of his periwig hid from view these tokens of amused wonder.  MacLean bowed somewhat stiffly, as one grown rusty in such matters.  “I am in addition Mr. Marmaduke Haward’s storekeeper,” he said succinctly, then turned to the master of Fair View.  “It grows late,” he announced, “and I must be back at the store to-night.  Have you any message for Saunderson?”