"Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly.

Mr. Bancroft was quite equal to the occasion.

"My dear," he said fondly, "do you think I did not know it?"

Cleone shook her head.

"You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me."

"Forgot you?" Mr. Bancroft was derisive. "Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!"

"Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? 'Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip—oh, and James."

"The games I remember," he answered. "But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?"

"You've a monstrous short memory," reproved Cleone. "Of course you remember Philip Jettan?"

"How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?" he protested. "Could I be sensible of another's presence when you were there?"

Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft's compliments very entertaining and novel.

"You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home."

"Alas!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "I would it were a mile away." He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. "May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?" he begged.

"If you please, sir," said Cleone, eyes cast down.

They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand.

"I dare not hope for recognition, madam," he bowed. "Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand."

Madam Charteris extended it weakly.

"Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?"

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