Events flowed on. Lord and Lady Dunstable came back by tea-time,
bringing with them the solicitor, who was also the chief factor of their
Scotch estate. Lord Dunstable looked old and wearied. He came to find
Doris on the lawn, pressing her hand with murmured words of thanks.

"If that child Alice Wigram--of course I remember her well!--brings us
information we can go upon, we shall be all right. At least there's
hope. My poor boy! Anyway, we can never be grateful enough to you."

As for Lady Dunstable, the large circle which gathered for tea under a
group of Scotch firs talked indeed, since Franick Castle existed for
that purpose, but they talked without a leader. Their hostess sat silent
and sombre, with thoughts evidently far away. She took no notice of
Meadows whatever, and his attempts to draw her fell flat. A neighbour
had walked over, bringing with him--maliciously--a Radical M.P. whose
views on the Scotch land question would normally have struck fire and
fury from Lady Dunstable. She scarcely recognised his name, and he and
the Under-Secretary launched into the most despicable land heresies
under her very nose--unrebuked. She had not an epigram to throw at
anyone. But her eyes never failed to know where Doris Meadows was, and
indeed, though no one but the two or three initiated knew why, Doris was
in some mysterious but accepted way the centre of the party. Everybody
spoiled her; everybody smiled upon her. The white tea-gown which she
wore--miracle of delicate embroidery--had never suited Lady Dunstable;
it suited Doris to perfection. Under her own simple hat, her eyes--and
they were very fine eyes--shone with a soft and dancing humour. It was
all absurd--her being there--her dress--this tongue-tied hostess--and
these agreeable men who made much of her! She must get Arthur out of it
as soon as possible, and they would look back upon it and laugh. But for
the moment it was pleasant, it was stimulating! She found herself
arguing about the new novels, and standing at bay against a whole group
of clever folk who were tearing Mr. Augustus John and other gods of her
idolatry to pieces. She was not shy; she never really had been; and to
find that she could talk as well as other people--or most other
people--even in these critical circles, excited her. The circle round
her grew; and Meadows, standing on the edge of it, watched her with
astonished eyes.

* * * * *

The northern evening