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 crêpe 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