and for the first time in his life Peter Vanrenen harbored
an uneasy suspicion that his daughter had not been quite candid with
him. It was impossible, of course, in the close intimacy of long hours
spent together in a touring car, that there should not be many
references to Fitzroy and the Mercury. They were inevitable as the
milestones, and Vanrenen, who was just as prone as other men to
look at facts through his own spectacles, failed to understand how
an intelligent girl like his daughter could remain in constant
association with Viscount Medenham for five days, and yet not discover
his identity.

More than once, indeed, notwithstanding the caution exercised by the
others--engaged now in a tacit conspiracy to dispel memories of a
foolish entanglement from the girl's mind--the identification of
Fitzroy with the young Viscount trembled on the very lip of discovery.
Thus, on Friday, when they had motored to Grasmere, and had gathered
before lunch in the lounge of the delightfully old-fashioned Rothay
Hotel, Vanrenen happened to pick up an illustrated paper, containing a
page of pictures of the Scarland short-horns.

Now, being a busy man, he gave little heed to the terminological
convolutions of names among the British aristocracy. He had not the
slightest notion that the Marquis of Scarland's wife was Medenham's
sister, and, with the quick interest of the stock-breeder, he pointed
out to Mrs. Leland an animal that resembled one of his own pedigree
bulls, at present waxing fat on the Montana ranch. For the moment
Mrs. Leland herself had forgotten the relationship between the two
men.

"I met the Marquis last year at San Remo," she said heedlessly.
"Anyone more unlike a British peer you could not imagine. If I
remember rightly, he is a blunt, farmer-like person, but his wife
is very charming. By the way, who was she?"

Such a question could not pass Mrs. Devar unanswered.

"Lady Betty Fitzroy," she chirped instantly.

Cynthia, who was looking through the window at the square-towered
little church, throned midst the somber yews which shelter the graves
of Wordsworth and his kin, caught the odd conjunction of
names--"Betty" and "Fitzroy."

"Who is that you are speaking of, father?" she asked, though with a
listless air that Medenham had never seen during any minute of those
five happy days.

"The Marquis of Scarland--the man from whom I bought some cattle a few
years ago," he said, trusting to the directness of