She turned aside quickly; her own eyes were moistening, and it was part
of her character to be reluctant to let Isabel see it. "Why have I made
a fool of myself?" she wondered, as she approached the drawing-room
door. "It doesn't matter. I am all the better for it. Odd, that Mr.
Hardyman should have made me feel fonder of Isabel than ever!"

With those reflections she re-entered the drawing-room--and suddenly
checked herself with a start. "Good Heavens!" she exclaimed irritably,
"how you frightened me! Why was I not told you were here?"

Having left the drawing-room in a state of solitude, Lady Lydiard on her
return found herself suddenly confronted with a gentleman, mysteriously
planted on the hearth-rug in her absence. The new visitor may be rightly
described as a gray man. He had gray hair, eyebrows, and whiskers; he
wore a gray coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and gray gloves. For
the rest, his appearance was eminently suggestive of wealth and
respectability and, in this case, appearances were really to be trusted.
The gray man was no other than Lady Lydiard's legal adviser, Mr. Troy.

"I regret, my Lady, that I should have been so unfortunate as to startle
you," he said, with a certain underlying embarrassment in his manner.
"I had the honor of sending word by Mr. Moody that I would call at this
hour, on some matters of business connected with your Ladyship's house
property. I presumed that you expected to find me here, waiting your
pleasure--"

Thus far Lady Lydiard had listened to her legal adviser, fixing her eyes
on his face in her usually frank, straightforward way. She now stopped
him in the middle of a sentence, with a change of expression in her own