The man himself was glancing about him with a puzzled look and knitted forehead.  When he had passed through the village he had seen things he had not expected to see; when he had reached the entrance gate, and—­for reasons of his own—­dismissed his station trap, he had looked at the lodge scrutinisingly, because he was not prepared for its picturesque trimness.  The avenue was free from weeds and in order, the two gates beyond him were new and substantial.  As he went on his way and reached the first, he saw at about a hundred yards distance a tall girl in white standing watching him.  Things which were not easily explainable always irritated him.  That this place—­which was his own affair—­should present an air of mystery, did not improve his humour, which was bad to begin with.  He had lately been passing through unpleasant things, which had left him feeling himself tricked and made ridiculous—­as only women can trick a man and make him ridiculous, he had said to himself.  And there had been an acrid consolation in looking forward to the relief of venting one’s self on a woman who dare not resent.

“What has happened, confound it!” he muttered, when he caught sight of the girl.  “Have we set up a house party?” And then, as he saw more distinctly, “Damn!  What a figure!”

By this time Betty herself had begun to see more clearly.  Surely this was a face she remembered—­though the passing of years and ugly living had thickened and blurred, somewhat, its always heavy features.  Suddenly she knew it, and the look in its eyes—­the look she had, as a child, unreasoningly hated.

Nigel Anstruthers had returned from his private holiday.

As she took a few quiet steps forward to meet him, their eyes rested on each other.  After a night or two in town his were slightly bloodshot, and the light in them was not agreeable.

It was he who spoke first, and it is possible that he did not quite intend to use the expletive which broke from him.  But he was remembering things also.  Here were eyes he, too, had seen before—­twelve years ago in the face of an objectionable, long-legged child in New York.  And his own hatred of them had been founded in his own opinion on the best of reasons.  And here they gazed at him from the face of a young beauty—­for a beauty she was.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed; “it is Betty.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a faint, but entirely courteous, smile.  “It is.  I hope you are very well.”

She held out her hand.  “A delicious hand,” was what he said to himself, as he took it.  And what eyes for a girl to have in her head were those which looked out at him between shadows.  Was there a hint of the devil in them?  He thought so—­he hoped so, since she had descended on the place in this way.  But what the devil was the meaning of her being on the spot at all?  He was, however, far beyond the lack of astuteness which might have permitted him to express this last thought at this particular juncture.  He was only betrayed into stupid mistakes, afterwards to be regretted, when rage caused him utterly to lose control of his wits.  And, though he was startled and not exactly pleased, he was not in a rage now.  The eyelashes and the figure gave an agreeable fillip to his humour.  Howsoever she had come, she was worth looking at.