had never
been able to cure himself of that old hope that some day the feet of a
client--a wealthy client--would pause at his door, but the feet had
always gone by--as these would do. The steps did indeed pass his door,
paused, came back, and--oh wonder! it was _his_ knocker that awoke the
Temple echoes.

He glanced at the table. It was hopeless. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I daresay it's only a bill," he said, and went to see.

The newcomer was impatient, for even as Guillemot opened the door, the
knocker was in act to fall again.

"Is Mr Guillemot---- Oh, Stephen, I should have known you anywhere!"

A radiant vision in a white linen gown--a very smart tailor-made-looking
linen gown--and a big white hat was standing in his doorway, shaking him
warmly by the hand.

"Won't you ask me in?" asked the vision, smiling in his bewildered face.

He drew back mechanically, and closed the door after him as she went in.
Then he followed her into the room that served him for office and
living-room, and stood looking at her helplessly.

"You don't know me a bit," she said; "it's a shame to tease you. I'll
take off my hat and veil; you will know me then. It's these fine
feathers!"

And take them off she did--in front of the fly-spotted glass on the
mantel-piece; then she turned a bright face on him, a pretty mobile
face, crowned with bright brown hair. And still he stood abashed.

"I never thought you would have forgotten the friend of childhood's
hour," she began again. "I see I must tell you in cold blood."

"Why, it's Rosamund!" he cried suddenly. "Do forgive me! I never, never
dreamed---- My dear Rosamund, you aren't really changed a bit it's
only--your hair being done up and----"

"And the fine feathers," said she, holding out a fold of her dress.
"They are very pretty feathers, aren't they?"

"Very," said he. And then suddenly a silence of embarrassment fell
between them.

The girl broke it with a laugh that was not quite spontaneous.

"How funny it all is!" she said. "I went to New York with my uncle when
dear papa died--and then I went to Girton, and now poor uncle's dead,
and----" Her eye fell on the tablecloth. "I'm going to clear away this
horrid breakfast of yours," she said.

"Oh, please!" he pleaded, taking the marmalade jar up in his helpless
hands. She took the jar from him.

"Yes, I am," she said firmly; "and you can just sit down and try to
remember who I am."

He obediently withdrew to the