mile, explained that it was his wife,
and that, though a charming portrait, it scarcely did justice to the
original.

"Mais c'est a merveille!" he said, with a quick gesticulation, as he
moved on to allow other people access to the picture.

Lorraine nudged Margaret, and drew her aside.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That man in the light suit declared
that Madame Bertier was his wife!"

"Impossible! Her husband is interned in Germany!"

"Well, that was what he said at any rate."

"Perhaps he was making up, just for effect. Some people like to tell
these wonderful fibs in public, just to impress the outside world."

"Then why didn't he speak English, if he wanted to impress people?"

"Which man was it?"

"That one--next to the lady in blue."

"Why--why--if I'm not utterly mistaken, I verily believe it's the man we
looked at through the glasses from Tangy Point: he met Madame Bertier on
the shore."

"And I couldn't remember where I'd seen him before. Oh, Carina! Let's
follow them, and I'll look at him again."

But the crowd in the Academy was rapidly increasing, and the three
foreigners were lost behind a row of ladies in fashionable spring hats.
They must have made an unexpected exit, for though Lorraine kept her
eyes open for them the whole of the morning, she did not chance to see
them again.

"It's rather mysterious, isn't it?" she said to Margaret afterwards.

"It is--if he was telling the truth. Some of these foreigners are queer
people. Never mind Madame Bertier now; let us enjoy ourselves. Shall we
get tickets for a _matinee_ to-morrow, or leave theatres for the
evenings? Remember, we want plenty of time for Kew."

CHAPTER XVI

An Opportunity

Lorraine, after a delirious round of pleasure in town, returned to
Porthkeverne quite tired out with festivities, but declaring that she
had had the time of her life.

"It will be your turn next," she said to Monica, who sat on the floor
while she unpacked, and demanded a circumstantial account of every hour
of the gay visit. "We shall certainly have you jaunting off to London
some day."

"Not till I'm seventeen, perhaps," the voice was doleful, "and that's
just ages to wait. Daisy Phillips has been to London three times, and
she's only ten! She crows over me dreadfully."

"Poor old Cuckoo! You're a badly-used child! See what I've got for you
inside this parcel."

"A Japanese pencil-box! The very thing I wanted! And such a lovely o