been the blood relation of all of them, except perhaps Mr. G.,
whose blood no doubt had not been blue enough to entitle him to the
privilege.

However, she must do her best. She kept these feelings and preparations
entirely secret from Arthur, and she saw the day of the visit dawn in a
mood of mingled expectation and revolt.

CHAPTER II

It was a perfect June evening: Doris was seated on one of the spreading
lawns of Crosby Ledgers,--a low Georgian house, much added to at various
times, and now a pleasant medley of pillared verandahs, tiled roofs,
cupolas, and dormer windows, apparently unpretending, but, as many
people knew, one of the most luxurious of English country houses.

Lady Dunstable, in a flowing dress of lilac crepe and a large black hat,
had just given Mrs. Meadows a second cup of tea, and was clearly doing
her duty--and showing it--to a guest whose entertainment could not be
trusted to go of itself. The only other persons at the tea-table--the
Meadowses having arrived late--were an elderly man with long Dundreary
whiskers, in a Panama hat and a white waistcoat, and a lady of uncertain
age, plump, kind-eyed, and merry-mouthed, in whom Doris had at once
divined a possible harbour of refuge from the terrors of the situation.
Arthur was strolling up and down the lawn with the Home Secretary,
smoking and chatting--talking indeed nineteen to the dozen, and entirely
at his ease. A few other groups were scattered over the grass; while
girls in white dresses and young men in flannels were playing tennis in
the distance. A lake at the bottom of the sloping garden made light and
space in a landscape otherwise too heavily walled in by thick woodland.
White swans floated on the lake, and the June trees beyond were in their
freshest and proudest leaf. A church tower rose appropriately in a
corner of the park, and on the other side of the deer-fence beyond the
lake a herd of red deer were feeding. Doris could not help feeling as
though the whole scene had been lately painted for a new "high life"
play at the St. James's Theatre, and she half expected to see Sir George
Alexander walk out of the bushes.

"I suppose, Mrs. Meadows, you have been helping your husband with his
lectures?" said Lady Dunstable, a little languidly, as though the heat
oppressed her. She was making play with a cigarette and her half-shut
eyes were fixed on the "lion's" wife. The eyes fascinated Doris. Surely
they were artificially black