“Here they are at last,” exclaimed Miss Lambent. “I told you so. Now, Beatrice, what do you say?”

“Nothing,” replied her sister quietly.

“Then I say something. George Canninge wouldn’t have come here to a children’s school feast unless he had expected to meet some one particular.”

The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady, with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of bays. He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers—beards were an abomination then—and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance, and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and dusted his glossy boots.