Part 10 (1/2)

”Another name for our Florizel's train, Morry,” he cried gaily. ”My son Michael--a rare buck I'll prophesy.”

Morice Conyers bowed--a trifle formally. The tall, broad-shouldered figure in its plain but handsome dress, with dark head held proudly, and a quiet look of steady doggedness in the grey eyes, did not promise a boon companion of the Carlton House order.

A voice from behind broke a moment's pause.

It was that of the green-clad stranger to whom Mistress Gabrielle had been talking.

”Present me, Conyers,” he demanded. ”Though I'm thinking we have met before.”

Michael bowed gravely, but without recognition.

Mr. Guy Barton's twinkling blue eyes surveyed him with friendly interest.

”You may better recall, sir,” he observed, ”the Oxford coach which you drove with exceeding profit to my pocket last November.”

Michael smiled as he held out his hand. He remembered now the beetroot-nosed gentleman with the valise who had been the special subject of interest to Dandy d.i.c.k and his followers.

And meantime, whilst Mr. Barton told the tale amidst shouts of approving laughter, the hero of it crossed boldly to where a little figure sat solitary in a big, crimson satin-covered chair with dark head drooping rather wearily.

”Mistress Gabrielle.”

Oh! she was awake now, and the blushes were not those of anger.

It was the lover of the primrose woods come to her thus unexpectedly, and all the handsomer in his rich suit and silken hose. For a woman notices these things, though Michael could only have told that it was the same sweet face which had shone suddenly through the grey gloom of his young life and set it a-flood with undreamt-of glory.

He was no courtier, this Michael Berrington. And had no pretty compliments of sparkling frothiness and emptiness to bestow on his lady. Yet she had no fault to find with him for that, though she was quick to note the furrow on his brow which had not been there when they plucked primroses together.

”You are sad?” she asked him. ”Tell me what it is.”

The child's frankness was no less sweet than the woman's sympathy behind it.

”My father has returned,” he replied. ”That is how I found entrance here. He is your brother's friend.”

She paled a little at the words, and her soft brown eyes took a harder look as she glanced across the room to where Morice hung on the arm of Sir Stephen Berrington in merriest mood.

”Your father?” she whispered, and Michael drew back his breath sharply.

The faint contempt and anger in the two words struck him the cruellest blow he had ever felt.

Perhaps she knew it and repented, for she laid a soft little hand on his clenched one.

”Forgive me,” she whispered. ”Only--for the moment--I thought of _my_ father.”

Michael's face was stern.

”And I also, mistress,” he replied. ”We have no right here. It shames me----”

He faltered, and she checked further speech by her own contrition.

”Hush,” she implored. ”See, we are friends. It was our primrose bond, or, rather, an older one still--of ten years since.” She smiled with a flash of coquetry to give meaning to her words. ”And as you are my knight I lay command upon you never to speak word of that again. The past is dead, quite dead. Your father is Morry's friend--and you are mine.”