“Then you would recognise her, if you saw her.  I heard to-day that she seems an unusual young woman, and has beauty.”

“Her eyes and lashes are remarkable.  She is tall.  The Americans are setting up a new type.”

“Yes, they used to send over slender, fragile little women.  Lady Anstruthers was the type.  I confess to an interest in the sister.”

“Why?”

“She has made a curious impression.  She has begun to do things.  Stornham village has lost its breath.”  He laughed a little.  “She has been going over the place and discussing repairs.”

Mount Dunstan laughed also.  He remembered what she had said.  And she had actually begun.

“That is practical,” he commented.

“It is really interesting.  Why should a young woman turn her attention to repairs?  If it had been her father—­the omnipotent Mr. Vanderpoel—­who had appeared, one would not have wondered at such practical activity.  But a young lady—­with remarkable eyelashes!”

His elbows were on the arm of his chair, and he had placed the tips of his fingers together, wearing an expression of such absorbed contemplation that Mount Dunstan laughed again.

“You look quite dreamy over it,” he said.

“It allures me.  Unknown quantities in character always allure me.  I should like to know her.  A community like this is made up of the absolutely known quantity—­of types repeating themselves through centuries.  A new one is almost a startling thing.  Gossip over teacups is not usually entertaining to me, but I found myself listening to little Miss Laura Brunel this afternoon with rather marked attention.  I confess to having gone so far as to make an inquiry or so.  Sir Nigel Anstruthers is not often at Stornham.  He is away now.  It is plainly not he who is interested in repairs.”

“He is on the Riviera, in retreat, in a place he is fond of,” Mount Dunstan said drily.  “He took a companion with him.  A new infatuation.  He will not return soon.”

CHAPTER XIX

SPRING IN BOND STREET

The visit to London was part of an evolution of both body and mind to Rosalie Anstruthers.  In one of the wonderful modern hotels a suite of rooms was engaged for them.  The luxury which surrounded them was not of the order Rosalie had vaguely connected with hotels.  Hotel-keepers had apparently learned many things during the years of her seclusion.

Vanderpoels, at least, could so establish themselves as not to greatly feel the hotel atmosphere.  Carefully chosen colours textures, and appointments formed the background of their days, the food they ate was a thing produced by art, the servants who attended them were completely-trained mechanisms.  To sit by a window and watch the kaleidoscopic human tide passing by on its way to its pleasure, to reach its work, to spend its money in unending shops, to show itself and its equipage in the park, was a wonderful thing to Lady Anstruthers.  It all seemed to be a part of the life and quality of Betty, little Betty, whom she had remembered only as a child, and who had come to her a tall, strong young beauty, who had—­it was resplendently clear—­never known a fear in her life, and whose mere personality had the effect of making fears seem unreal.