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      “For my grandmother’s mother, Mr. Bender—the most beautiful woman of her time and the greatest of all Lawrences, no matter whose; as you quite acknowledged, you know, in our talk in Bruton Street.”

      Mr. Bender bethought himself further—yet drawing it out; as if the familiar fact of his being “made up to” had never had such special softness and warmth of pressure. “Do you want very, very much——?”

      She had already caught him up. “ ‘Very, very much’ for her? Well, Mr. Bender,” she smilingly replied, “I think I should like her full value.”

      “I mean”—he kindly discriminated—“do you want so badly to work her off?”

      “It would be an intense convenience to me—so much so that your telegram made me at once fondly hope you’d be arriving to conclude.”

      Such measure of response as he had good-naturedly given her was the mere frayed edge of a mastering detachment, the copious, impatient range elsewhere of his true attention. Somehow, however, he still seemed kind even while, turning his back upon her, he moved off to look at one of the several, the famous Dedborough pictures—stray specimens, by every presumption, lost a little in the whole bright bigness. “ ‘Conclude’?” he echoed as he approached a significantly small canvas. “You ladies want to get there before the road’s so much as laid or the country’s safe! Do you know what this here is?” he at once went on.

      “Oh, you can’t have that!” she cried as with full authority—“and you must really understand that you can’t have everything. You mustn’t expect to ravage Dedborough.”

      He had his nose meanwhile close to the picture. “I guess it’s a bogus Cuyp—but I know Lord Theign has things. He won’t do business?”

      “He’s not in the least, and can never be, in my tight place,” Lady Sandgate replied; “but he’s as proud as he’s kind, dear man, and as solid as he’s proud; so that if you came down under a different impression—!” Well, she could only exhale the folly of his error with an unction that represented, whatever he might think of it, all her competence to answer for their host.

      He scarce thought of it enough, on any side, however, to be diverted from prior dispositions. “I came on an understanding that I should find my friend Lord John, and that Lord Theign would, on his introduction, kindly let me look round. But being before lunch in Bruton Street I knocked at your door——”

      “For another look,” she quickly interposed, “at my Lawrence?”

      “For another look at you, Lady Sandgate—your great-grandmother wasn’t required. Informed you were here, and struck with the coincidence of my being myself presently due,” he went on, “I despatched you my wire, on coming away, just to keep up your spirits.”

      “You don’t keep them up, you depress them to anguish,” she almost passionately protested, “when you don’t tell me you’ll treat!”

      He paused in his preoccupation, his perambulation, conscious evidently of no reluctance that was worth a scene with so charming and so hungry a woman. “Well, if it’s a question of your otherwise suffering torments, may I have another interview with the old lady?”

      “Dear Mr. Bender, she’s in the flower of her youth; she only yearns for interviews, and you may have,” Lady Sandgate earnestly declared, “as many as you like.”

      “Oh, you must be there to protect me!”

      “Then as soon as I return——!”

      “Well,”—it clearly cost him little to say—“I’ll come right round.”

      She joyously registered the vow. “Only meanwhile then, please, never a word!”

      “Never a word, certainly. But where all this time,” Mr. Bender asked, “is Lord John?”

      Lady Sandgate, as he spoke, found her eyes meeting those of a young woman who, presenting herself from without, stood framed in the doorway to the terrace; a slight fair grave young woman, of middle, stature and simply dressed, whose brow showed clear even under the heavy shade of a large hat surmounted with big black bows and feathers. Her eyes had vaguely questioned those of her elder, who at once replied to the gentleman forming the subject of their inquiry: “Lady Grace must know.” At this the young woman came forward, and Lady Sandgate introduced the visitor. “My dear Grace, this is Mr. Breckenridge Bender.”

      The younger daughter of the house might have arrived in preoccupation, but she had urbanity to spare. “Of whom Lord John has told me,” she returned, “and whom I’m glad to see. Lord John,” she explained to his waiting friend, “is detained a moment in the park, open to-day to a big Temperance school-feast, where our party is mostly gathered; so that if you care to go out—!” She gave him in fine his choice.

      But this was clearly a thing that, in the conditions, Mr. Bender wasn’t the man to take precipitately; though his big useful smile disguised his prudence. “Are there any pictures in the park?”

      Lady Grace’s facial response represented less humour perhaps, but more play. “We find our park itself rather a picture.”

      Mr. Bender’s own levity at any rate persisted. “With a big Temperance school-feast?”

      “Mr. Bender’s a great judge of pictures,” Lady Sandgate said as to forestall any impression of excessive freedom.

      “Will there be more tea?” he pursued, almost presuming on this.

      It showed Lady Grace for comparatively candid and literal. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of tea.”

      This appeared to determine Mr. Bender. “Well, Lady Grace, I’m after pictures, but I take them ‘neat.’ May I go right round here?”

      “Perhaps, love,” Lady Sandgate at once said, “you’ll let me show him.”

      “A moment, dear”—Lady Grace gently demurred. “Do go round,” she conformably added to Mr. Bender; “take your ease and your time. Everything’s open and visible, and, with our whole company dispersed, you’ll have the place to yourself.”

      He rose, in his genial mass, to the opportunity. “I’ll be in clover—sure!” But present to him was the richest corner of the pasture, which he could fluently enough name. “And I’ll find ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’?”

      She indicated, off to the right, where a stately perspective opened, the quarter of the saloon to which we have seen Mr. Banks retire. “At the very end of those rooms.”

      He had wide eyes for the vista. “About thirty in a row, hey?” And he was already off. “I’ll work right through!”

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