"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 Dick 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.