“She’s not going to marry that chap, is she, Miss Chillingham?” he had asked.

“No,” said Beatrice; “you have my word for it, she isn’t.”

As she was leaving, Mrs. Pomfret had taken Victoria’s hand and drawn her aside, and looked into her face with a meaning smile.

“My dear!” she exclaimed, “he particularly asked that you be invited.”

“Who?” said Victoria.

“Humphrey.  He stipulated that you should be here.”

“Then I’m very much obliged to him,” said Victoria, “for I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.  I like your Englishman so much.”

“Do you?” said Mrs. Pomfret, searching Victoria’s face, while her own brightened.  “He’s heir to one of the really good titles, and he has an income of his own.  I couldn’t put him up here, in this tiny box, because I have Mrs. Fronde.  We are going to take him to the convention—­and if you’d care to go, Victoria—?”

Victoria laughed.

“It isn’t as serious as that,” she said.  “And I’m afraid I can’t go to the convention—­I have some things to do in the neighbourhood.”

Mrs. Pomfret looked wise.

“He’s a most attractive man, with the best prospects.  It would be a splendid match for you, Victoria.”

“Mrs. Pomfret,” replied Victoria, wavering between amusement and a desire to be serious, “I haven’t the slightest intention of making what you call a ‘match.’” And there was in her words a ring of truth not to be mistaken.

Mrs. Pomfret kissed her.

“One never can tell what may happen,” she said.  “Think of him, Victoria.  And your dear mother—­perhaps you will know some day what the responsibility is of seeing a daughter well placed in life.”

Victoria coloured, and withdrew her hand.

“I fear that time is a long way off, Mrs. Pomfret,” she replied.

“I think so much of Victoria,” Mrs. Pomfret declared a moment later to her guest; “she’s like my own daughter.  But at times she’s so hopelessly unconventional.  Why, I believe Rangely’s actually going home with her.”

“He asked her to drop him at the Inn,” said Mrs. Fronde.  “He’s head over heels in love already.”

“It would be such a relief to dear Rose,” sighed Mrs. Pomfret.

“I like the girl,” replied Mrs. Fronde, dryly.  “She has individuality, and knows her own mind.  Whoever she marries will have something to him.”

“I devoutly hope so!” said Mrs. Pomfret.

It was quite true that Mr. Arthur Rangely had asked Victoria to drop him at the Inn.  But when they reached it he made another request.

“Do you mind if I go a bit farther, Miss Flint?” he suggested.  “I’d rather like the walk back.”

Victoria laughed.

“Do come,” she said.

He admired the country, but he looked at Victoria, and asked a hundred exceedingly frank questions about Leith, about Mrs. Pomfret, whom he had met at his uncle’s seat in Devonshire, and about Mr. Crewe and the railroads in politics.  Many of these Victoria parried, and she came rapidly to the conclusion that Mr. Arthur Rangely was a more astute person than—­to a casual observer he would seem.