Lord Ormont was cordial on the day of the secretary’s installation; as if—­if one might dare to guess it—­some one had helped him to a friendly judgement.

The lady of Aminta’s eyes was absent at the luncheon table.  She came into the room a step, to speak to Lord Ormont, dressed for a drive to pay a visit.

The secretary was unnoticed.

Lord Ormont put inquiries to him at table, for the why of his having avoided the profession of arms; and apparently considered that the secretary had made a mistake, and that he would have committed a greater error in becoming a soldier—­“in this country.”  A man with a grievance is illogical under his burden.  He mentioned the name “Lady Ormont” distinctly during some remarks on travel.  Lady Ormont preferred the Continent.

Two days later she came to the armchair, as before, met Weyburn’s eyes when he raised them; gave him no home in hers—­not a temporary shelter from the pelting of interrogations.  She hardly spoke.  Why did she come?

But how was it that he was drawn to think of her?  Absent or present, she was round him, like the hills of a valley.  She was round his thoughts—­ caged them; however high, however far they flew, they were conscious of her.

She took her place at the midday meal.  She had Aminta’s voice in some tones; a mellower than Aminta’s—­the voice of one of Aminta’s family.  She had the trick of Aminta’s upper lip in speaking.  Her look on him was foreign; a civil smile as they conversed.  She was very much at home with my lord, whom she rallied for his addiction to his Club at a particular hour of the afternoon.  She conversed readily.  She reminded him, incidentally that her aunt would arrive early next day.  He informed her, some time after, of an engagement “to tiffin with a brother officer,” and she nodded.

They drove away together while the secretary was at his labour of sorting the heap of autobiographical scraps in a worn dispatch-box, pen and pencil jottings tossed to swell the mess when they had relieved an angry reminiscence.  He noticed, heedlessly at the moment, feminine handwriting on some few clear sheets among them.

Next day he was alone in the library.  He sat before the box, opened it and searched, merely to quiet his annoyance for having left those sheets of the fair amanuensis unexamined.  They were not discoverable.  They had gone.

He stood up at the stir of the door.  It was she, and she acknowledged his bow; she took her steps to her chair.

He was informed that Lord Ormont had an engagement, and he remarked, “I can do the work very well.”  She sat quite silent.

He read first lines of the scraps, laid them in various places, as in a preparation for conjurer’s tricks at cards; refraining from a glance, lest he should disconcert the eyes he felt to be on him fitfully.

At last she spoke, and he knew Aminta in his hearing and sight.