A sound of wheels turning in at the lodge-gates—­it is Maurice’s hansom.

Helen hurries forward to meet him in the hall; Captain Kynaston is handing a lady out of the hansom; Helen peers at her suspiciously.

“I am bringing you ladies a friend to lunch,” says Maurice, gaily, and Mrs. Romer’s face clears when she sees that it is Beatrice Miller.

“Oh, Beatrice, it is you!  I am delighted to see you!  Go in to the dining-room, you will find Lady Kynaston.  Maurice,” drawing him back a minute, “how late you are again!  What have you been doing?”

“I waited whilst Miss Miller put her bonnet on.”

“Why, where did you meet her?”

“I met her at her mother’s, where I went to call.  Have you any objection?” He looked at her almost defiantly as he answered her questions; it was intolerable to him that she should put him through such a catechism.

“You can’t have been there all the morning,” she continued, suspiciously; unable or unwilling, perhaps, to notice his rising displeasure.  “Where did you go first?”

Maurice bit his lip, but controlled himself with an effort.

“My dear child,” he said, lightly, “one can’t sell out of the army, or prepare for the holy estate of matrimony, without a certain amount of business on one’s hands.  Suppose now we go in to lunch.”  She stepped aside and let him pass her into the dining-room.

“He is shuffling again,” she said to herself, angrily; “that was no answer to my question.  Is it possible that he sees her?  But no, what folly; if she is at Sutton, how can he get at her?”

“Oh, Helen,” cried out Beatrice to her from the table as she entered, “you and Lady Kynaston are positively out of the world this season.  You know none of the gossip.”

“I go nowhere, of course, now; my grandfather’s death is so recent.  I have so many preparations to make just now; and dear Lady Kynaston is good enough to shut herself up on my account.”

“Exactly; you are a couple of recluses,” cried Beatrice.  “Now, I daresay you will never guess who is the new beauty whom all the world is talking about; no other than our friend Vera Nevill.  She is creating a perfect sensation!”

“Indeed!” politely, but with frigid unconcern, from Lady Kynaston.

“Yes; I assure you there is a regular rage about her.  Oh, how stupid I am!  Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned her, Lady Kynaston, for of course she did not behave very well to Sir John, as we all know; but now that is all over, isn’t it? and everybody is wild about her beauty.”

“I am glad to hear that Miss Nevill is prospering in any way,” said her ladyship, stiffly.  “I owe her no ill-will, poor girl.”

Helen Romer is looking at Maurice Kynaston; he has not said one single word, nor has he raised his eyes once from his plate; but a deep flush has overspread his handsome face at the sound of Vera’s name.