When I reached Gloucester Terrace, on this particular afternoon, I found Hilda Wade there before me.  She had lunched at my aunt’s, in fact.  It was her “day out” at St. Nathaniel’s, and she had come round to spend it with Daphne Tepping.  I had introduced her to the house some time before, and she and my cousin had struck up a close acquaintance immediately.  Their temperaments were sympathetic; Daphne admired Hilda’s depth and reserve, while Hilda admired Daphne’s grave grace and self-control, her perfect freedom from current affectations.  She neither giggled nor aped Ibsenism.

A third person stood back in the room when I entered—­a tall and somewhat jerry-built young man, with a rather long and solemn face, like an early stage in the evolution of a Don Quixote.  I took a good look at him.  There was something about his air that impressed me as both lugubrious and humorous; and in this I was right, for I learned later that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic song with immense success while preserving a sour countenance, like a Puritan preacher’s.  His eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long and nervous; but I fancied he looked a good fellow at heart, for all that, though foolishly impulsive.  He was a punctilious gentleman, I felt sure; his face and manner grew upon one rapidly.

Daphne rose as I entered, and waved the stranger forward with an imperious little wave.  I imagined, indeed, that I detected in the gesture a faint touch of half-unconscious proprietorship.  “Good-morning, Hubert,” she said, taking my hand, but turning towards the tall young man.  “I don’t think you know Mr. Cecil Holsworthy.”

“I have heard you speak of him,” I answered, drinking him in with my glance.  I added internally, “Not half good enough for you.”

Hilda’s eyes met mine and read my thought.  They flashed back word, in the language of eyes, “I do not agree with you.”

Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me closely.  I could see she was anxious to discover what impression her friend Mr. Holsworthy was making on me.  Till then, I had no idea she was fond of anyone in particular; but the way her glance wandered from him to me and from me to Hilda showed clearly that she thought much of this gawky visitor.

We sat and talked together, we four, for some time.  I found the young man with the lugubrious countenance improved immensely on closer acquaintance.  His talk was clever.  He turned out to be the son of a politician high in office in the Canadian Government, and he had been educated at Oxford.  The father, I gathered, was rich, but he himself was making an income of nothing a year just then as a briefless barrister, and he was hesitating whether to accept a post of secretary that had been offered him in the colony, or to continue his negative career at the Inner Temple, for the honour and glory of it.

“Now, which would you advise me, Miss Tepping?” he inquired, after we had discussed the matter some minutes.