But before he could even be introduced, the pretty girl with the
olive-brown complexion had held out her hand to him frankly, and
exclaimed in a voice as sunny as her face--

"I don't need to be told your friend's name, I'm sure, Mrs. Godfrey.
He's so awfully like him. I should have known him anywhere. Of
course, you're Mr. Waring's brother, aren't you?"

Guy smiled, and bowed gracefully; he was always graceful.

"I refuse to be merely MR. WARING'S BROTHER," he answered, with
some amusement, as he took the proffered hand in his own warmly.
"If it comes to that, I'm Mr. Waring myself; and Cyril, whom you
seem to know already, is only my brother."

"Ah, but MY Mr. Waring isn't here to-day, is he?" the olive-brown
girl put in, looking around with quite an eager interest at the
crowd in the distance. "Naturally, to me, he's THE Mr. Waring, of
course, and you are only MY Mr. Waring's brother."

"Elma, my dear, what on earth will Mr. Waring think of you?"
her mother put in, with the conventional shocked face of British
propriety. "You know," she went on, turning round quickly to Guy,
"we're all so grateful to your brother for his kindness to our girl
in that dreadful accident the other day at Lavington, that we can't
help thinking and talking of him all the time as our Mr. Waring. I'm
sorry he isn't here himself this afternoon to receive our thanks.
It would be such a pleasure to all of us to give them to him in
person."