be ’very select’ in every form that is commended by an up-to-date civilisation.  Down here, in the stately old-world surroundings of Abbot’s Manor, they looked very strange to her,—­nay, even more than strange.  Clowns, columbines and harlequins with all their ‘make-up’ on, could not have seemed more out of place than these socially popular persons in the historic house of her ancestors.  Lady Beaulyon was perhaps the most remarkable ‘revelation’ of the whole company.  Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with quite an extravagant admiration, on account of her physical charm and grace,- -and had also liked her sufficiently well to entirely discredit the stories that were rife about the number of her unlawful amours.  That she was an open flirt could not be denied,—­but that she ever carried a flirtation beyond bounds, Maryllia would never have believed.  Now, however, a new light seemed thrown upon her—­there was a touch of something base in her beauty—­a flash of cruelty in her smile—­a hardness in her eyes.  Maryllia looked at her wistfully now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the disillusion was so complete.

The luncheon went on, and was soon over, and coffee and cigarettes were served.  All the women smoked with the exception of Maryllia, Cicely and old Miss Fosby.  The rings of pale blue vapour circled before Maryllia’s eyes in a dim cloud,—­she had seen the same kind of mixed smoking going on before, scores of times, and yet now—­why was it that she felt vaguely annoyed by a sense of discrepancy and vulgarity She could not tell.  Cicely watched her lovingly,—­and every now and again Julian Adderley, waving away the smoke of his own cigar with one hand, studied her face and tried to fathom its expression.  She spoke but little, and that chiefly to Lord Charlemont who was on her left-hand side.

“And how long are you going to stay in this jolly old place, Miss Vancourt?” he asked.

“All my life, I hope,”—­she said with a little smile—­“It is my own home, you know.”

“Oh yes!—­I know!—­but—­” he hesitated for a moment; “But your aunt-—­”

“Aunt Emily and I don’t quite agree,”—­said Maryllia, quietly—­“She has been very kind to me in the past,—­but since Uncle Fred’s death, things have not been just as pleasant.  You see, I speak frankly.  Besides I’m getting on towards thirty,—­it’s time I lived my own life, and tried to do something useful.”

Charlemont laughed.

“You look more like eighteen than thirty,”—­he said—­“Why give yourself away?”

“Is that giving myself away?” and she raised her eyebrows quizzically—­“I’m not thirty yet—­I’m twenty-seven,—­but that’s old enough to begin to take things seriously.  I’ve made up my mind to live here at Abbot’s Manor and do all I can for the tenantry and the village generally—­I’m sure I shall be perfectly happy.”  “How about getting married?” he queried.

Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence.