dying the effect of a tiara upon her splendidly coiffured
hair.

"I met him," Rochester answered, "sitting with his back to a rock on
the top of one of my hills."

"What, you mean here at Beauleys?" Lady Mary asked.

"On Beacon Hill," her husband assented. "It was seven years ago, and
as you can gather from his present appearance, he was little more than
a boy. He sat there in the twilight, seeing things down in the valley
which did not and never had existed--seeing things that never were
born, you know--things for which you stretch out your arms, only to
find them float away. He was quite young, of course."

Lady Mary turned around.

"Henry!" she exclaimed.

"My dear?"

"You are absolutely the most irritating person I ever attempted to
live with!"

"And I have tried so hard to make myself agreeable," he sighed.

"You are one of those uncomfortable people," she declared, "who loathe
what they call the obvious, and adore riddles. You would commit any
sort of mental gymnastic rather than answer a plain question in a
straightforward manner."

"It is perfectly true," he admitted. "You have such insight, my dear
Mary."

"I am to take it, then," she continued, "that you know absolutely
nothing about your protege? You know nothing, for instance, about his
family, or his means?"

"Absolutely nothing," he admitted. "He has an uncommon name, but I
believe that I gathered from him once that his parentage was not
particularly exalted."

"At least," she said, with a little sigh, "he is quite presentable. I
call him, in fact, remarkably good-looking, and his manners leave
nothing to be desired. He has lived abroad, I should think."

"He may have lived anywhere," Rochester admitted.

"Well, I'll have him next me at dinner," she declared. "I daresay I
shall find out all about him pretty soon. Come, Henry, I am quite sure
that everyone is down. You and I play host and hostess so seldom that
we have forgotten our manners."

They descended to the drawing-room, and Lady Mary murmured her
apologies. Everyone, however, seemed too absorbed to hear them. They
were listening to Saton, who was standing, the centre of a little
group, telling stories.

"It was in Buenos Ayres," Rochester heard him conclude, amidst a
ripple of laughter. "I can assure you that I saw the incident with my
own eyes."

Lois Champneyes--an heiress, pretty, and Rochester's ward--came
floating across the room to them. She wore a plain muslin gown,