Two ladies passed. Lady Palmer leaned forward and looked at them earnestly. She saw a pretty fair-haired girl, and with her was a slight graceful woman with silver hair. Her face seemed familiar, but for a moment Lady Palmer could not place her. A moment later, however, her face cleared, and she put out her hand.
"Mrs. May, how stupid of me not to recognize you before!" She drew her skirts aside. "Do come and sit down. Is this one of your girls?"
"No, this is a little niece who is staying with us, Sophie Rankin, Lady Palmer." Mrs. May hesitated a moment. Good vicar's wife as she was, she had thought Lady Palmer haughty, disagreeable; to-day she came to the conclusion that she had sadly misjudged her. She took the chair next to her, and sat down, Miss Rankin remained standing, biting her full underlip, her eyes misty.
Lady Palmer glanced at her. "Won't your niece sit down?" she asked sweetly. "She looks in trouble. Is there anything the matter?"
"She has had a little disappointment, poor child," Mrs. May said with slight reserve. "And she is young and shows it, that is all."
Lady Palmer looked again at the girl standing up beside them.
"What was the disappointment?" she asked lightly.
The girl's lips quivered. "I had been looking forward to seeing Lady Carew. I used to be so fond of her."
"Were you really? Ah, well, you must see her some other time," Lady Palmer responded with seeming indifference. She turned to her host. "I'm sure you remember Mrs. May, general," she said sweetly.
The general turned somewhat unwillingly from his admiration of Peggy.
"Why, bless my soul, of course I do. Is your husband here, Mrs. May? I wonder what he thought of my exhibits? I always like to know his opinion."
Mrs. May smiled with much gratification. "I am sure, general, he would be delighted." This was Lady Palmer's opportunity; she knew the general. She felt certain that Mrs. May would not get away from him very easily, now that he was once launched on the topic of his hothouse and gardens, with a fresh auditor. She turned to the tall, fair girl who was leaning forward, as if trying to catch a glance of Sir Anthony Carew.
"Come and sit here, my dear, we must have a little talk together, I am so sorry you are disappointed." She spoke lightly, and motioned the girl to sit beside her.
Sophie's face brightened as she took the vacant seat.
"I am sure Wembley Show is delightful," she said shyly. "It is only that I have been looking forward to it so tremendously, because I heard that Lady Carew was expected to give the prizes away, and when I knew that she was not coming I was so dreadfully disappointed. I am afraid you will think me a terrible baby," she finished with a sigh.
"Indeed I don't!" Lady Palmer smiled, with well assumed quasi-maternal interest. "Do you know Lady Carew very well?" She could not help the undertone of deep interest that crept into her voice.
But Miss Rankin apparently noticed nothing. "Isn't she a darling?" she cried enthusiastically. "I always adored her. And I believe really I was her favourite, though we were all fond of Miss Latimer."
"Miss Latimer," Lady Palmer repeated, raising her eye-brows. "Then it was before her marriage that you knew my cousin. But of course, I believe I have heard her mention your name"—mendaciously—"of course you are—I mean, you were—"
"Yes! She was our governess," Sophie Rankin said eagerly. "And you have really heard her mention us, Lady Palmer. I wonder what she said?"
Lady Palmer's eyes had narrowed, her mouth was smiling still, but her expression had altered. A touch of subtle triumph mingled now with its sweetness. Fate itself must have sent Sophie Rankin to her at this particular moment, she thought.
"She has not said very much, naturally," she said slowly. "But she has always spoken of you as if she was fond of you."
Sophie clasped her hands, her blue eyes lighted up. "Oh, she was—I know she was. Nobody shall ever make me believe she was not."
Lady Palmer glanced at her quickly. "But of course she was fond of you," she observed with decision. "Who can possibly try to make you think she was not?"
"It is Mother," Sophie said confidentially. "She thinks Lady Carew does not wish to remember us because she has not written to us since her marriage. She wrote me that my aunt was not to take me to Heron's Carew. I was not to seek out Lady Carew in any way. And of course I haven't. But I thought I shouldn't be putting myself in her way," continued Sophie, "if she had been here to-day, just to stand somewhere where she could have seen me; and then perhaps if she would have remembered me—she would have spoken to me!"
Lady Palmer laughed. "Of course Lady Carew would have spoken to you. Now I have been thinking, I will take the responsibility. As Lady Carew is ill, it would be no use going to Heron's Carew to-night, she would not be able to see us, but to-morrow, if Mrs. May will spare you, I will drive over with you. I know the dear general will let me have his carriage."
Sophie's ingenuous countenance turned pink all over. "Oh, how kind you are, and how I should love to come, but it is impossible; I am going home in the morning."
"I am sorry," Lady Palmer's tone showed that she meant what she said. "Couldn't you possibly put off your journey for a day?"
Sophie shook her head. "Mother has already let me stay a week longer than my original invitation. I must go back to-morrow, but thank you very much for thinking of it, Lady Palmer, all the same."
Lady Palmer's active brain was busy. Even to herself she would hardly have acknowledged that her dislike of Judith Carew lay in the fact that the latter was her cousin's wife. That, as Sybil Carew, Lady Palmer had made a big mistake when she threw over her cousin Anthony for Lord Palmer, she had long known; but for the presence of Judith at Heron's Court, she felt certain that her mistake might have been repaired. Lady Palmer had watched her cousin's wife. She had seen the beautiful eyes darken with fear. She had seen her start and glance round at any sudden noise, as though haunted by some never-ceasing dread. More and more was she convinced that Judith's past held some secret; more and more determined did she grow to find it out, to use it to her own advantage.
"How long was Lady Carew with you?" she asked Sophie abruptly. "A long time was it not?"
"Two years," the girl answered simply. "She stayed until I was nearly seventeen."
"Only two years?" Lady Palmer repeated. "I thought it had been longer. Stay; perhaps it was some earlier pupils I was thinking of. Do you remember the name of the people she was with before she came to you?"
"I don't know." Sophie's voice sounded altered. She was trying to catch Mrs. May's eye apparently. "I have forgotten."
Mrs. May was taking leave of the general. "I am sure my husband thinks as you do, general."
"So does every sensible man," the general returned, as he shook hands.
Mrs. May's eyes were a little anxious as she glanced at her young niece. "Come, Sophie, dear, I believe we ought to be going now; we have a long drive before us, you know."
Lady Palmer saw that her opportunity was over. She glanced smilingly at Sophie. "You must give me your address, my dear."
The girl looked red, a little confused. "St. Barnabas' Vicarage, Chelsea," she said hastily. "Father is Canon Rankin."
"Canon Rankin! Why, of course I know—I mean, I have heard of him," Lady Palmer exclaimed, with a sudden memory of a clergyman whose work among the outcasts of London was obtaining a grudging recognition from all classes. "I believe my sister—Mrs. Dawson—knows him quite well. We shall meet again some day, my dear." She nodded and smiled as Mrs. May drew the girl away.
The prize-giving was nearly over now; Peggy turned to exchange a smile with Chesterham. Stephen Crasster's hand went up to his chin and pulled it restlessly. He told himself that