had a shrewd notion that she must have been a perfect Tartar to live
with. Miss Marsh might be busy or tired out with the ordeal of the day,
but as she also might be leaving almost immediately and he wanted to see
her, he had not hesitated to come, once he was sure that the Wickham
relatives had departed. That he would find the late Miss Wickham's
companion indulging in any show of grief for her late employer, had
never entered his head.

He was a good-looking, if rather vacuous, young man with a long, elegant
body. His dark, sleek hair was always carefully brushed and his small
mustache trimmed and curled. His beautiful clothes suggested the
fashionable tailors of Savile Row. Everything about him--his tie, his
handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, his boots--bore the
stamp of the very latest thing.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry to blow in like this," he said airily.

He beamed on Nora, whom he had always regarded as much too pretty a girl
to be what he secretly called a 'frozy companion' and sent a quick
inquiring glance at Miss Pringle, whom he vaguely remembered to have
seen somewhere in Tunbridge Wells. But then Tunbridge Wells was filled
with frumps. Oh, yes. He remembered now. She was usually to be seen
leading a pair of Poms on a leash.

"You see, I didn't know if you'd be staying on here," he went on,
retaining Nora's hand, "and I wanted to catch you. I'm off in a day or
two myself."

"Won't you sit down? Mr. Hornby--Miss Pringle."