“Anyhow, I shall certainly refuse him.”

And on this point her mind was irrevocably made up since, after all, whether Rupert would accept refusal or not would still remain entirely for him to decide.

At half-past three she heard the garden-gate creak, and when she ran to the window to peep, she saw with a kind of chill surprise that there was a stranger coming through.

“Some one he’s sent,” she said to herself.  “He doesn’t want to come himself and so he has sent some one else instead.  I am glad.”

Having said this and repeated again the last three words, and having gulped down a sob—­presumably of joy—­that unexpectedly fluttered into her throat, she went quickly to open the door.

The newly-arrived stranger smiled at her as she showed herself but did not speak.  He was a man of middle height, quite young, and wrapped in a big, loose overcoat that very completely hid his figure.  His face, clean-shaven, showed clear, strongly-marked well-shaped features with a firm mouth round which at this moment played a very gentle and winning smile, a square-cut chin, and extremely bright, clear kindly eyes that were just now smiling too.

When he took off his hat she saw that his hair was cut rather closely, and very neatly brushed and combed, and she found his smile so compelling and so winning that in spite of her disappointment she found herself returning it.

It occurred to her that she had some time or another seen some one like this stranger, but when or where she could not imagine.

Still he did not speak, but his eyes were very tender and kind as they rested on her so that she wondered a little.

“Yes?” she said inquiringly.  “Yes?”

“Don’t you know me, Ella?” he said then, very softly, and in a voice that she recognized instantly.

“Is it you—­you?” she breathed.

Instinctively she lifted her hands to greet him, and at once she found herself caught up and held, pressed passionately to his strongly-beating heart.

***

An hour later, by the fire in the sitting-room, Ella suddenly remembered tea.

“Good gracious!  You must be starving,” she cried, smitten with remorse.  “And there’s poor mother waiting upstairs all this time.  Oh, Rupert, are you very hungry?”

“Starving,” he asserted, but held her to him as closely as ever.

“I must get the tea,” she protested.  She put one cheek against his and sighed contentedly.

“It’s nice to see the real you,” she murmured.  “But oh, Rupert, I do miss your dear bristly beard.”