went. Lord Ronsdale had greeted John Steele perfunctorily; the other's
manner was likewise mechanically courteous. It could not very well have
been otherwise; a number of people were near.

"Come down for a little sport?" the nobleman, his hands carelessly
thrust into the pockets of his shooting trousers, had asked with a
frosty smile.

"Perhaps--if there is any!" Steele allowed his glance for the fraction
of a moment to linger on Lord Ronsdale's face.

"I'll answer for that." A slight pause ensued. "Decided rather suddenly
to run down, didn't you?"

"Rather."

"Heard you were on the continent. From Sir Charles, don't you know.
Pleasant time, I trust?" he drawled.

"Thank you!" John Steele did not answer directly. "Your solicitude," he
laughed, "honors me--my Lord!"

And that had been all, all the words spoken, at least. To the others
there had been nothing beneath the surface between them; for the time
the two men constituted but two figures in a social gathering.

A rainy spell put a stop to outdoor diversions; for twenty-four hours
now the party had been thrown upon their own resources, to devise such
indoor amusement as occurred to them. Strathorn House, however, was
large; it had its concert stage, a modern innovation; its armory hall