The door opened, and the last guest appeared—­a man, tall, broad-chested, and fair, with short yellow hair parted in the middle, a well-shaped head, a blunt, straight nose, a well-defined but not obstinate chin, a sensitive mouth, and big, sincere, even enthusiastic, blue eyes, surmounted by thick blond eyebrows that always looked as if they had just been brushed vigorously upwards.  A small, close-growing moustache covered his upper lip.  His cheeks and forehead were tanned by the sun.  He was thirty-six years old, but looked a great deal younger, because he was fair.  His figure was very muscular and upright, with a hollow back and lean flanks.  His capable, rather large-fingered, but not clumsy, hands were brown.  There was in his face a peculiarly straight and bright look that suggested the North and Northern things, the glitter of stars upon snows, cool summits of mountains swept by pure winds, the scented freshness of pine forests.  He had something of the expression, of the build, and of the carriage of a hero from the North.  But he was surely a hero from the North who had very recently had his dwelling in the South, and who had taken kindly to it.

When Lady Somerson saw the newcomer, she rushed at him and blew him up.  Then she introduced him to the lady he was to take in to dinner, and, with an alacrity that was almost feverish, gave the signal for her guests to move into the dining-room, disclosed at this moment by two assiduous footmen who briskly pushed back the sliding doors that divided it from the room in which she had received.

“Our hostess does not conceal her feelings,” murmured Mrs. Derringham, who was Doctor Isaacson’s companion, as they found their places at the long table.  “Who is the man whom she has just scolded so vivaciously?  I know his face quite well.”

“One of the best fellows in the world—­Nigel Armine.  I have not seen him till to-night since last October.  He has been out in Egypt.”

At this moment he caught the fair man’s eyes, and they exchanged with his a look of friendship.

“Of course!  I remember!  He looks like a knight-errant.  So did his father, poor Harwich.  I used to act with Harwich in the early never-mind-whats at Burnham House.  One scarcely ever sees Nigel now.  I don’t think he was ever at all really fond of London and gaieties.  Harwich was, of course.  Yet even in his face there was a sort of strangeness, of other-worldliness.  I used to say he had kitten’s eyes.  How he believed in women, poor fellow!”

“Don’t you believe in women?”

“As a race, no.  I believe in a very few individual women.  But Harwich believed in women because they were women.  That is always a mistake.  He believed in them as a good Catholic believes in the Saints.  And he was punished for it.”

“You mean after Nigel’s mother died?  That Mrs.—­what was her name?—­Mrs. Alstruther?”

“Yes, Mrs. Alstruther.  She treated Harwich abominably.  Even if she had been free, she would never have married him.  He bored her.  But he worshipped her, and thought to the end that her husband ill-used her.  So absurd, when Paul Alstruther could call neither his soul nor his purse his own.  Nigel Armine has his father’s look.  He, too, is born to believe in women.”