“He likes to find his way himself,” she whispered.

“They tell me there’s tea in here,” Wayne said, cheerily, from the doorway.

“There’s more than tea,” Miriam replied in as bright a tone as she could assume.  “There’s Mr. Strange, whom you met last night.”

“Ah, that’s good.”  Wayne groped his way toward the voices.  “How do you do!  Glad to see you.  It’s windy out-of-doors.  One feels the winter beginning to nip.”

Ford took the extended hand, and, without seeming to do so, adroitly piloted the blind man to a seat as they moved, all three, to the tea-table.

For the next ten minutes their talk turned on the common topics of the day.  As during her conversation with Conquest a few weeks before, Miriam found again that the routine of duties of acting as hostess steadied her nerves.  With Ford aiding her in the little ways to which he had become accustomed since his engagement to Evie, hostility was absent from their mutual relation, even though opposition remained.  That at least was a comfort to her; and now and then, as she handed him the bread and butter or a plate of cakes to pass to Wayne, their eyes could meet in a glance of comprehension.

Wayne was still enjoying his tea when Ford turned to him with an abrupt change of tone.

“I’m glad you came in, sir, while I was still here, because there’s something I particularly want to tell you.”

He did not look at Miriam, but he could feel the way in which she sat upright and aghast.  Wayne turned his sightless eyes, hidden by large colored glasses, toward the speaker, and nodded.

“Yes?” he said, interrogatively.

“I would have told you before, only that Miss Jarrott and Miss Colfax thought I had better wait till every one got settled.  In any case, Mr. Jarrott made it a condition before I left Buenos Aires that it shouldn’t go outside the family till Miss Colfax had had her social winter in New York.”

Wayne’s face grew grave, but not unsympathetic.

“I suppose I know what’s coming,” he said, quietly.

“It’s the sort of thing that was bound to come sooner or later with Miss Colfax,” Ford smiled, speaking with an air of assurance.  “What makes me uneasy is that I should be the man to come and tell the news.  If it was any one you knew better—­”

“You’ve probably heard that I’m not Evie’s guardian,” Wayne interposed.  “I’ve no control at all over what she does.”

“I understand that; but to me there’s an authority above the legal one—­or at least on a level with it—­and I should be unhappy—­we should both be unhappy—­if we didn’t have your consent.”

Wayne looked pleased.  He was so rarely consulted in the affairs of the family, especially since his affliction had forced him aside, that this deference was a clew to the young man’s character.  Nevertheless, he allowed some seconds to pass in silence, while Ford threw at Miriam a glance of defiance, in which there was also an expression of audacious friendliness.  She sat rigid and pale, her hands clinching the arms of her chair.