But Jill shook her head sulkily; she felt safer in her corner.  Sara was strumming on the grand pianoforte as we passed her; her slim fingers were running lazily over the keys in the ‘Verliebt und Verloren’ valse.  Clarence was lighting the candles; William was bringing in the coffee; and Colonel Ferguson was following rather unceremoniously.  People were always dropping in at Hyde Park Gate:  perhaps Sara’s bright eyes magnetised them.  We had colonels and majors and captains at our will, for there was a martial craze in the house:  to-night it was grave, handsome Colonel Ferguson.

He was rather a favourite with Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa, perhaps because his troubles interested them; he had buried his young wife and child in an Indian grave, and some people said that he had come to England to look out for a second wife.

He was a very handsome man, and still young enough to find favour in a girl’s sight, and his wealth made him a grand parti in the parents’ eyes.  At present he had bestowed equal attention on Sara and Lesbia, though close observers might have noticed that he lingered longest by Sara’s side.

‘How do you do, Colonel Ferguson?’ said Sara, nodding to him in her bright, unconcerned way, as she finished her valse.  ’Mother is over there talking to Fraeulein:  you will find your coffee ready for you.’  And her glossy little head bent over the keys again, while the lazy music trickled through her fingers.  Though Colonel Ferguson did as he was told, I fancied he would keep a close watch over the young performer.

The inner drawing-room had heavy velvet hangings that closed over the archway; on cold evenings the curtains would be drawn rather closely; there would be a bright fire, and a single lamp lighted.  Very often Uncle Brian would retire with his book or paper when Sara’s valses wearied him or the room filled with young officers.  Since Ralph’s death he had certainly become rather taciturn and unsociable.  Aunt Philippa, who loved gaiety, never accompanied him, but now and then Jill would creep from her corner, when her mother was not looking, and slip behind the ruby curtains.  I have caught her there sometimes sitting on the rug, with her rough head against her father’s knee; they would both of them look a little shamefaced, as if they were guilty of some fault.

‘Go to bed, Jill; it is time for little girls to be asleep,’ he would say, patting her cheek.  Jill would nestle it on his coat-sleeve for a moment, as she obeyed him.  Her father had the softest place in her heart.  She always would have it that her mother was hard on her, but she never complained of want of kindness from her father.

‘Colonel Ferguson comes very often,’ remarked Lesbia, a little peevishly, as she walked to the fireplace to warm herself:  she was a chilly being, and loved warmth.  ’His name is Donald, is it not? some one told me so:  Donald Ferguson.  Well, he is not bad; he may do for Sara.  She has plenty of quicksilver to balance his gravity.’