come."

"And who is that?" he enquired.

"Lady Jane Partington of Woolhanger--a daughter of the Duke of
Barminster. Woolhanger was left to her by an old aunt, and they say
that she never leaves the place."

"An elderly lady?" he asked, merely with an intent of prolonging a
harmless subject of conversation.

"On the contrary, quite young," his wife replied. "She seems to be a
sort of bachelor-spinster, who lives out in that lonely place without a
chaperon and rules the neighborhood. You ought to make friends with
her, Andrew. They say that she is half a Socialist.--By the by, how
long are we going to stay down here?"

"We will discuss that presently," he answered.

The service of dinner came to its appointed end. Tallente drank one
glass of port alone. Then he rose, left the room by the French windows,
passed along the terrace and looked in at the drawing-room, where Stella
was lingering over her coffee.

"Will you walk with me as far as the lookout?" he invited. "Your maid
can bring you a cloak if you are likely to be cold."

She responded a little ungraciously, but appeared a few minutes later, a
filmy shawl of lace covering her bare shoulders. She walked by his side
to the end of the terrace, along the curving walk through the