have done in "barbaric" lands, but the instinct of this other
civilisation was at work in him. He might have been a polite casual
guest, and not a grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of
twenty-seven years' tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess
with whom he wished to be on terms: that was all.

If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had
only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner.
Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been
her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings
were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery
she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was
now brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she
merely lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as they
clasped his, all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly,
nervously. To his surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek.
"It was good of you to come down after such a journey," she said.
Nothing more.

Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William's courteous gesture. The
situation had its difficulties for the guests--perfect guests as they
were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there had
been no preparation save Sir William's remark that a grandson had arrived
from the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation and
appear casual put their resources to some test. But they stood it well,
though. their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully mechanical.
So occupied were they with Gaston's entrance, that they did not know
how near Lady Dargan came to fainting.

At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red