onel Ormiston's expression altered, hardened. And Richard, in his
present hypersensitive state, remembered the cool scrutiny bestowed on
the winged sea-gull of his dream last night. This man had seemed so
near him just now, while they talked. Suddenly he became remote again,
all understanding of him shut away by that slight insolence of bearing.
Still he did as Richard prayed him. Miss Cathcart was at home. She had
just come in from riding.

"Tell her Sir Richard Calmady is here, and would like, if he may, to
see her."

Without waiting for a reply, Ormiston unbuckled that same chastening
strap silently, quickly. He got down and, coming round to the farther
side of the carriage, lifted Richard out; while Camp, who had jumped
off the back seat, stood yawning, whining a little, shaking his heavy
head and wagging his tail in welcome on the door-step. With the
bull-dog close at his heels, Ormiston carried the boy into the house.

The inner doors were open, and, up the long, narrow, pleasantly
fresh-tinted drawing-room, Mary Cathcart came to meet them. The folds
of her habit were gathered up in one hand. In the other she carried a
bunch of long-stalked, yellow and scarlet tulips. Her strong, supple
figure stood out against the young green of the lawns and shrubberies,
seen through the French windows behind her. She walked carefully, with
a certain deliberation, thanks to her narrow habit and top-boots. The
young lady carried her thirty-one years bravely. Her irregular features
and large mouth had always been open to criticism. But her teeth, when
her lips parted, were white and even, and her brown eyes frankly honest
as ever.

"Why, Dickie dear, it is simply glorious to have you and Camp paying
visits on your own account."--Her speech broke into a little cry, while
her fingers closed so tightly on the tulips that the brittle stalks
snapped, and the gay-coloured bells of them hung limply, some falling
on to the carpet about her feet. "Roger--Colonel Ormiston--I didn't
know you were home--were here!" Her voice was uncontrollably glad.

Still carrying the boy, Ormiston stood before her, observing her
keenly. But he was no longer remote. His insolence, which, after all,
may have been chiefly self-protective, had vanished.

"I'm very sorry--I mean for those poor tulips. I came to pay my
respects to Mr. and Mrs. Cathcart, and not finding them was preparing
to drive humbly home again. But----" Certainly she carried her years