hands and looked into her eyes.

"Josephine," he asked, "do you think it needs any good nature on my
part?"

She met his gaze frankly enough at first, smiling gratefully at his ready
acceptance. And then a curious change came. She felt her heart begin to
beat faster, the strange intrusion of a new element into her life and
thoughts and being. It was shining out of her eyes, something which made
her a little afraid yet ridiculously light-hearted. Suddenly she felt the
colour burning in her cheeks. She withdrew her hands, lost her presence
of mind, and found it again at the sound of the servant's approaching
footsteps.

"About eight o'clock, then," she said. "A dinner coat will do unless you
are going on somewhere. Henry will be so glad to meet you."

"It will give me great pleasure to meet Lord Dredlinton," Wingate
murmured, as he made his farewell bow.

CHAPTER VI

Dredlinton House, before which Wingate presented himself punctually at
eight o'clock that evening, had a sombre, almost a deserted appearance.
The great bell which he pealed seemed to ring through empty spaces. His
footsteps echoed strangely in the lofty white stone hall as he followed
the butler into a small anteroom, from which, however, he was rescued a
few minutes later by Josephine's maid.

"Her ladyship will be glad if you will come to the boudoir," she invited.
"Dinner is to be served there. If monsieur will follow me."

Wingate passed up the famous staircase, around which was a little
semicircle of closed doors, and was ushered into a small apartment on the
first floor, through the shielded windows of which he caught glimpses of
green trees. The room was like a little fairy chamber, decorated in white
and the faintest shade of mauve. In the center, a white and gold round
table was prepared for the service of dinner, some wonderful cut glass
and a little bunch of mauve sweet peas its only decoration.

"Her ladyship will be down in a moment," the maid announced, as she
lowered the blind a little more to keep out the last gleam of sunlight.
"If monsieur will be seated."

Wingate ignored the silent invitation of the voluptuous little settee
with its pile of cushions. He stood instead upon the hearth rug, gazing
around him. The room, in its way, was a revelation. Josephine, ever since
their first meeting at Etaples, had always seemed to him to carry with
her a faint suggestion of sadness, which everything in this little
apartment seemed