“Glasgow is a large place, Sir Patrick.”

“Yes.  Even if they have telegraphed on and had her watched (which doesn’t appear), she may escape us again at Glasgow.  I am the last man in the world, I hope, to shrink from accepting my fair share of any responsibility.  But I own I would have given something to have kept this telegram out of the house.  It raises the most awkward question I have had to decide on for many a long day past.  Help me on with my coat.  I must think of it!  I must think of it!”

Sir Patrick went down to dinner in no agreeable frame of mind.  The unexpected recovery of the lost trace of Miss Silvester—­there is no disguising it—­seriously annoyed him.

The dinner-party that day, assembling punctually at the stroke of the bell, had to wait a quarter of an hour before the hostess came down stairs.

Lady Lundie’s apology, when she entered the library, informed her guests that she had been detained by some neighbors who had called at an unusually late hour.  Mr. and Mrs. Julius Delamayn, finding themselves near Windygates, had favored her with a visit, on their way home, and had left cards of invitation for a garden-party at their house.

Lady Lundie was charmed with her new acquaintances.  They had included every body who was staying at Windygates in their invitation.  They had been as pleasant and easy as old friends.  Mrs. Delamayn had brought the kindest message from one of her guests—­Mrs. Glenarm—­to say that she remembered meeting Lady Lundie in London, in the time of the late Sir Thomas, and was anxious to improve the acquaintance.  Mr. Julius Delamayn had given a most amusing account of his brother.  Geoffrey had sent to London for a trainer; and the whole household was on the tip-toe of expectation to witness the magnificent spectacle of an athlete preparing himself for a foot-race.  The ladies, with Mrs. Glenarm at their head, were hard at work, studying the profound and complicated question of human running—­the muscles employed in it, the preparation required for it, the heroes eminent in it.  The men had been all occupied that morning in assisting Geoffrey to measure a mile, for his exercising-ground, in a remote part of the park—­where there was an empty cottage, which was to be fitted with all the necessary appliances for the reception of Geoffrey and his trainer.  “You will see the last of my brother,” Julius had said, “at the garden-party.  After that he retires into athletic privacy, and has but one interest in life—­the interest of watching the disappearance of his own superfluous flesh.”  Throughout the dinner Lady Lundie was in oppressively good spirits, singing the praises of her new friends.  Sir Patrick, on the other hand, had never been so silent within the memory of mortal man.  He talked with an effort; and he listened with a greater effort still.  To answer or not to answer the telegram in his pocket?  To persist or not to persist in his resolution to leave Miss Silvester to go her own way?  Those were the questions which insisted on coming round to him as regularly as the dishes themselves came round in the orderly progression of the dinner.