Tilchester, perhaps. And yet how, so soon after my
marriage, could I say to her: "My husband pays for another woman's
clothes, and is, I suppose, her lover. But beyond the insult of the
case, the disgust and contempt it fills me with, I am not hurt a bit,
and am only thankful for anything that keeps him away from me." What
would she think? Would she understand, because of Lord Tilchester
and Babykins, or would it, being so soon, shock her? I wish I knew.
Perhaps it is as my mother-in-law said, and I am not a flesh-and-blood
woman.

Early next day--they had come by the Scotch mail--Lord and Lady
Tilchester arrived with Babykins.

Most of the men were out shooting but the Duke and the beautiful young
man (his name is Lord Luffton), who had stayed behind to take care of
us, they said.

Lady Grenellen appeared just before lunch.

"I have ordered a brougham to meet the one-thirty train, Berty," she
said, "to bring my Americans up. They will be here in a minute. Come
into the hall with me to receive them."

The Duke accompanied her reluctantly.

"It would be as well to know their name," he said, as he sauntered
after her trailing skirts.

"Cadwallader--Miss Martina B. Cadwallader--that is the aunt, and
Miss Corrisande K. Trumpet--that is the niece," said Lady Grenellen,
stalking ahead.

The windows of the long gallery where we were all sitting looked onto
the court-yard, and two flys passed the angle of the turret.

"Look at the luggage!" exclaimed Babykins, and we all went to the
window.

There was, indeed, a wonderful collection--both flys laden with
enormous, iron-bound trunks as big as hen-houses. A pair of smart
French maids seemed buried beneath them.

The entire party of us burned with curiosity to see the owners, but
long before they appeared we were conscious of their presence.

Two of the most highly pitched American voices I have ever heard
were saying civil things to our host and Lady Grenellen. More highly
pitched than Hephzibah's, and that is the highest, I thought, there
could be in the world.

"She is awfully good-looking," whispered Babykins, who caught sight
of them first as they came through the hall.

The aunt walked in front with Lady Grenellen, a tall woman with
a keen, dark face of the red Indian type, with pure white hair,
beautifully done, and a perfect dignity of carriage.

The heiress followed with the Duke. She is small and plump and
feminine-looking, with the sweetest dimpled