The lights in the great silver candlesticks at the dower house shed a soft radiance over the dinner-table where Lady Dashwood sat alone. It was not yet dark, the saffron glow of the setting sun still struggled with the candles. Most of the dishes had been removed, and little remained but the peaches and the nectarines and the great bloom tinted grapes in the silver baskets.

Lady Dashwood sat there alone. She had peeled one of the russet and golden peaches, but the fragrant luscious fruit lay neglected on her plate. Her mind was far away from her surroundings.

The peacefulness of the night suited her more or less painful meditations. The same spirit of refinement and rest seemed to brood over the house; it seemed hard to associate a place like that with misery. And, perhaps, on the whole, Lady Dashwood was not altogether unhappy.

She had more or less expected Ralph Darnley to dinner, but he had declined at the last moment. He had written to say that he might have the pleasure of coming later, but even as to that he was not quite certain.

And so it came about that Lady Dashwood was alone. She had plenty of food for thought. There was yesterday's adventure, for instance, the finding of Mary in that unexpected way, and the visit to Grace Cameron's rooms.

Well, Lady Dashwood was not sorry that she had been, she was not sorry either that Mary had made up her mind to try her future in London. In some subtle way Mary had vastly improved. She had always shown a proper affection for Lady Dashwood, she loved her passionately, but she had always been somewhat reserved. She had not thought it right for a Dashwood to be demonstrative like other people. And she had cared very little for the sufferings of other people.

And now all this was changed. Mary had made the great discovery that she was only human after all, and had begun to take an interest in sorrow, suffering and gladness, and pleasure. Lady Dashwood was glad of that. Her own life had been one of constant self-repression. Perhaps that was all the more reason why she longed for an open display of affection now.

She was pleased to find that Mary was learning her lesson and that Ralph Darnley had been right. Ralph had prophesied from the first that all Mary needed was the fire of adversity to burn the alloy out of her system, and leave nothing but the pure gold behind. And his policy had been wonderfully successful.

But how much longer was this to continue? was the question that Lady Dashwood asked herself.

How long before Ralph would declare himself, and sweep away the blight that hung over Dashwood Hall at the present moment. Already people were beginning to talk, already the servants had strange tales to tell. Dubious men were staying at the Hall, a class of beings quite unknown to that historic house.

Sir Vincent Dashwood was entertaining a party at dinner tonight; he had brought his friends down from London with him earlier in the day. As yet nobody had called upon the new owner of Dashwood Hall, for people were holding aloof. They wondered, too, why the deposed head of the house had cared to stay on there. What Mary was actually doing in London was not known to anybody outside the home circle, but her action was approved of. Lady Dashwood hoped that the present state of things was not likely to last; she was going to ask Ralph to see Mary and judge for himself whether the punishment had not already gone far enough. Mary had had her eyes opened and would never be her cold, proud self again.

The peach was finished slowly, and Lady Dashwood was thinking of rising from the table. This solitary dining in state was a terrible trial to her. She had reached the time of life when she craved for young people to be about her. The house was very quiet, so quiet that the loud clang of the front door bell fairly startled Lady Dashwood. She placed her hand to her heart in some alarm.

Surely something dreadful had happened! No friend of the family would ever ring the bell like that. It was, perhaps, a late telegram to say that Mary--but the noisy voices in the hall did not suggest any catastrophe. Two or three people were talking at once; Lady Dashwood was sure she could smell tobacco smoke. Somebody laughed in a loud, vulgar way. What could it all mean?

The staid butler came into the dining-room, his manner respectful as always, but there was a flush on his face.

"My good Charles," Lady Dashwood exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

"Your ladyship may well ask that question," the aggrieved butler replied, "but I beg your ladyship's pardon, I am forgetting myself. We were sitting down to supper in the housekeeper's room when that ring startled us. I went to the door. Sir Vincent Das............