“Oh, but, uncle,” Lady Constance timidly remonstrated, “surely Mr. Vermont is a gentleman?”

“Yes, by Act of Parliament!” snapped the old man, in whose aristocratic eyes a lawyer was but little removed from the criminal whose case he defended.

“Certainly it is strange that Adrien should be so attached to him,” the girl said musingly; she, herself, had little liking for the gentleman in question, though her sense of justice had made her speak a good word for him.  “But he is a clever steward, at least.”

“A rogue’s only virtue,” said Lord Barminster dryly.

“Amusing, too,” she suggested.

“We’ve no longer need of a court jester,” returned her companion, with sarcasm.  “But never mind, Adrien will find out his mistake for himself one day.  Certainly, I am not going to attempt to strip the mask off his friend’s face.  Give him rope enough, and he will hang himself.  Meanwhile, give me some more coffee, and leave the fellow’s name alone; I hate even the thought of him.”

Lady Constance refilled his cup and brought it to the end of the table, for she loved to wait on the old man.  As she did so, his sharp eyes caught the glitter of a piece of needlework across the back of her chair, and with a curt gesture towards it, he said: 

“What is that?”

She blushed, almost deeply, then took it up, and opened it out for him to see.  It was a silk riding jacket, in the scarlet and white racing colours of the Leroys, and their coat of arms, worked in silver, upon the breast.

“For the Grand National,” said Lady Constance, as she refolded the jacket.

“You worked it yourself?” questioned the old man abruptly.

“Yes,” she replied, blushing again.  Then, as he was silent for some minutes, she said almost timidly:  “You do not mind, uncle, do you?”

He started.  “Mind!  Good Heavens, child, why should I?  You know the wish of my heart only too well.  What better favour could he wear than yours?  As far as I am concerned, you were plighted in your cradles.  Leroy and Tremaine are no unequal match.  No—­no—­my dear, make his jacket, and win his heart—­if you can!”

Some few hours later, panting and throbbing, the Daimler motor drew up in the Castle courtyard—­Adrien and his friends had arrived for the great steeplechase.

Attracted by the sound of the barking dogs, who apparently disliked the unaccustomed monster—­Lord Barminster himself invariably using horses—­Lady Constance stepped from her room on to the balcony which looked down upon the courtyard beneath.  The gentlemen’s hats flew off in greeting, and, as Adrien looked up, an unusual thrill ran through him as he noted the simple beauty of the girl above him.

“We thought we’d left the sun behind us, Constance, but evidently ‘she’ is still overhead,” he said, smiling.

She looked down with mock reproof, playfully shaking at him a flower which she held in her hand.