Because of this, he had read each letter with keen eyes.  They were long letters, full of detail and colour, because she knew he enjoyed them.  She had a delightful touch.  He sometimes felt as if they walked the English lanes together.  His intimacy with her neighbours, and her neighbourhood, was one of his relaxations.  He found himself thinking of old Doby and Mrs. Welden, as a sort of soporific measure, when he lay awake at night.  She had sent photographs of Stornham, of Dunholm Castle, and of Dole, and had even found an old engraving of Lady Alanby in her youth.  Her evident liking for the Dunholms had pleased him.  They were people whose dignity and admirableness were part of general knowledge.  Lord Westholt was plainly a young man of many attractions.  If the two were drawn to each other—­and what more natural—­all would be well.  He wondered if it would be Westholt.  But his love quickened a sagacity which needed no stimulus.  He said to himself in time that, though she liked and admired Westholt, she went no farther.  That others paid court to her he could guess without being told.  He had seen the effect she had produced when she had been at home, and also an unexpected letter to his wife from Milly Bowen had revealed many things.  Milly, having noted Mrs. Vanderpoel’s eager anxiety to hear direct news of Lady Anstruthers, was not the person to let fall from her hand a useful thread of connection.  She had written quite at length, managing adroitly to convey all that she had seen, and all that she had heard.  She had been making a visit within driving distance of Stornham, and had had the pleasure of meeting both Lady Anstruthers and Miss Vanderpoel at various parties.  She was so sure that Mrs. Vanderpoel would like to hear how well Lady Anstruthers was looking, that she ventured to write.  Betty’s effect upon the county was made quite clear, as also was the interested expectation of her appearance in town next season.  Mr. Vanderpoel, perhaps, gathered more from the letter than his wife did.  In her mind, relieved happiness and consternation were mingled.

“Do you think, Reuben, that Betty will marry that Lord Westholt?” she rather faltered.  “He seems very nice, but I would rather she married an American.  I should feel as if I had no girls at all, if they both lived in England.”

“Lady Bowen gives him a good character,” her husband said, smiling.  “But if anything untoward happens, Annie, you shall have a house of your own half way between Dunholm Castle and Stornham Court.”

When he had begun to decide that Lord Westholt did not seem to be the man Fate was veering towards, he not unnaturally cast a mental eye over such other persons as the letters mentioned.  At exactly what period his thought first dwelt a shade anxiously on Mount Dunstan he could not have told, but he at length became conscious that it so dwelt.  He had begun by feeling an interest in his story, and had asked questions about him, because a situation such as his