“Who?” sharply interrupted Sibylla.

Mr. Gordon looked surprised.  Her tone had betrayed something of eager alarm, not to say terror.

“Captain Cannonby, Mrs. Verner.  A friend of mine just returned from Australia.  Business took him to Paris as soon as he landed.”

“Is he from the Melbourne port?  Is his Christian name Lawrence?” she reiterated breathlessly.

“Yes—­to both questions,” replied Mr. Gordon.

Sibylla shrieked, and lifted her handkerchief to her face.  They gathered round her in consternation.  One offering smelling-salts, one running for water.  Lionel gently drew the handkerchief from her face.  It was white as death.

“What ails you, my dear?” he whispered.

She seemed to recover her equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it, and the colour began to appear in her cheeks again.

“His name—­Cannonby’s—­puts me in mind of those unhappy days,” she said, not in the low tone used by her husband, but aloud—­speaking, in fact, to all around her.  “I did not know Captain Cannonby had returned.  When did he come, Mr. Gordon?”

“About eight or nine days ago.”

“Has he made his fortune?”

Mr. Gordon laughed.  “I fancy not.  Cannonby was always of a roving nature.  I expect he got tired of the Australian world before fortune had time to find him out.”

Sibylla was soon deep in her flirtations again.  It is not erroneous to call them so.  But they were innocent flirtations—­the result of vanity.  Lionel moved away.

Another commotion.  Some great long-legged fellow, without ceremony or warning, came striding in at the window close to Lucy Tempest.  Lucy’s thoughts had been buried—­it is hard to say where, and her eyes were strained to the large yew-tree upon the grass.  The sudden entrance startled her, albeit she was not of a nervous temperament.  With Indian bow-strings in the mind, and fancied moonlight spies before the sight, a scream was inevitable.

Whom should it be but Jan!  Jan, of course.  What other guest would be likely to enter in that unceremonious fashion?  Strictly speaking, Jan was not a guest—­at any rate, not an invited one.

“I had got a minute to spare this evening, so thought I’d come up and have a look at you,” proclaimed unfashionable Jan to the room, but principally addressing Lionel and Sibylla.

And so Jan had come, and stood there without the least shame, in drab trousers, and a loose, airy coat, shaking hands with Sir Rufus, shaking hands with anybody who would shake hands with him.  Sibylla looked daggers at Jan, and Lionel cross.  Not from the same cause.  Sibylla’s displeasure was directed to Jan’s style of evening costume; Lionel felt vexed with him for alarming Lucy.  But Lionel never very long retained displeasure, and his sweet smile stole over his lips as he spoke.

“Jan, I shall be endorsing Lady Verner’s request—­that you come into a house like a Christian—­if you are to startle ladies in this fashion.”