"A thousand pardons. Mr. Boyce delayed me awhile with the beauties of his
conversation."

"Mr. Boyce?" she looked at Harry as if wondering that he dared exist. "Go
and see why they do not bring in dinner."

Having thus diminished Harry, she proceeded, without waiting for him to
be gone, to criticize him. "You know, I would never have a chaplain in
the house. This tutor fellow is of the same breed, Charles. They tease
me, these men which are neither gentlemen nor servants. Faith, life's
hard for the poor wretches. They are torn 'twixt their conceit and their
poverty. They know not from minute to minute whether they will fawn or be
insolent. So they do both indifferent ill."

Harry, who chose not to hear, was opening the door. There came in upon
him a woman--the young woman of the coach. Even as he recoiled, bowing,
even as he collected his startled wits, he was aware of the singular
beauty of her complexion. Its delicacy, its life, were nonpareil. The
first clear process of his mind was to wonder how he had contrived not to
remark that complexion when first he saw her.

Lady Waverton lifted up her voice. "Alison! Dear child! And are you home
at last? It's delicious in you. You seek us out first, do you not? My
sweet girl!" Alison was engulfed. Conceive apple blossom in the embraces
of a peony.

The apple blossom emerged with a calm, "Dear Lady Waverton."

"You are a sad bad thing. I writ you five letters, I think, and not one
from you."