Early next day—­they had come by the Scotch mail—­Lord and Lady Tilchester arrived with Babykins.

Most of the men were out shooting but the Duke and the beautiful young man (his name is Lord Luffton), who had stayed behind to take care of us, they said.

Lady Grenellen appeared just before lunch.

“I have ordered a brougham to meet the one-thirty train, Berty,” she said, “to bring my Americans up.  They will be here in a minute.  Come into the hall with me to receive them.”

The Duke accompanied her reluctantly.

“It would be as well to know their name,” he said, as he sauntered after her trailing skirts.

“Cadwallader—­Miss Martina B. Cadwallader—­that is the aunt, and Miss Corrisande K. Trumpet—­that is the niece,” said Lady Grenellen, stalking ahead.

The windows of the long gallery where we were all sitting looked onto the court-yard, and two flys passed the angle of the turret.

“Look at the luggage!” exclaimed Babykins, and we all went to the window.

There was, indeed, a wonderful collection—­both flys laden with enormous, iron-bound trunks as big as hen-houses.  A pair of smart French maids seemed buried beneath them.

The entire party of us burned with curiosity to see the owners, but long before they appeared we were conscious of their presence.

Two of the most highly pitched American voices I have ever heard were saying civil things to our host and Lady Grenellen.  More highly pitched than Hephzibah’s, and that is the highest, I thought, there could be in the world.

“She is awfully good-looking,” whispered Babykins, who caught sight of them first as they came through the hall.

The aunt walked in front with Lady Grenellen, a tall woman with a keen, dark face of the red Indian type, with pure white hair, beautifully done, and a perfect dignity of carriage.

The heiress followed with the Duke.  She is small and plump and feminine-looking, with the sweetest dimpled face and great brown eyes.  Both were exquisitely dressed and carried little bags at their waists.  Their manner had complete assurance, without a trace of self-consciousness.

Lady Grenellen had told us all their history.  Not a possible drop of blood bluer than a navvy’s could circulate in their veins, and yet their wrists were fine, their heads were small, and their general appearance was that of gentlewomen.

I seemed to see pictures and sounds of my earliest childhood as they spoke, I took to them at once.

Following the English custom, Lady Grenellen did not introduce them to any one but Babykins, who happened to step forward, and we all proceeded to lunch, which was laid at small, round tables.

The Duke wore an air of comic distress.  His eyebrows were raised as though trying to understand a foreign language.

I sat with Lady Tilchester at another table, and we could not hear most of their conversation, only the sentences of the American ladies, and they sounded like some one talking down the telephone in one of the plays I saw in Paris.  You only heard one side, not the answers back.