"Isn't that Lord Ronsdale?" asked the girl, continuing to gaze before
her.

A black look replaced the sudden flame in Steele's gaze; the hand
holding the reins closed on them tightly.

"Rather early for him, I fancy," she said, regarding the slim figure of
the approaching rider. "With his devotion to clubs and late hours, you
know! Do you, Mr. Steele, happen to belong to any of his clubs?"

"No." He spoke in a low voice, almost harshly.

Her brow lifted; his face was turned from her. Had he been mindful he
might have noted a touch of displeasure on the proud face, that she
regarded him as from a vague, indefinite distance.

"Lord Ronsdale is a very old friend of my uncle's," she observed
severely, "and--mine!"

Was it that she had divined a deep-seated prejudice or hostility toward
the nobleman hidden in John Steele's breast, that she took this occasion
to let him know definitely that her friends were her friends? "Even when
I was only a child he was very nice to me," she went on.

He remained silent; she frowned, then turned to the nobleman with a
smile. Lord Ronsdale found that her greeting left nothing to be desired;
she who had been somewhat unmindful of him lately on a sudden seemed
really glad to see him. His slightly tired, aristocratic face lightened;
the sunshine of Jocelyn Wray's eyes, the tonic of youth radiating from
her, were sufficient to alleviate, if not dispel, ennui or lassitude.