Grace watched Mr. Stevens very narrowly, and she saw him give a little start.
He turned the subject at once.
"I came to pay something over to you, Miss Rivers—will you give me a receipt?"
It was a large cheque—the interest on the fifteen thousand pounds from the date of her sister's marriage.
"Mrs. Drayton refused this—the legacy duty is deducted and an account inclosed."
Grace examined it all quietly. Then she drew a blotting-book near her. She signed a receipt and inclosed the cheque to her bankers—rang, and desired the letter to be sent by hand.
Mr. Stevens watched her narrowly; how curiously unlike Mrs. Drayton she was, and yet something—that indescribable and subtle resemblance which comes out in tricks of manner more than in feature—would have caused Grace to be known any where as Margaret's sister. He began to describe Inchbrae to her, but she stopped him hurriedly.
"Pray do not begin about it for I know it by heart—Margaret writes about nothing else, and, as for Mrs. Dorriman, I do not know whether she or Jean talk most about it. Clear crystal sea—soft shadows on the mountains, sometimes clouds (always clouds I should say!)—sharp crags, fir-trees beautiful with red stems, beautiful without, waterfall, rowan-trees, scarlet geraniums, and a grey house. There, do I know my lesson, or do I not? The idea of your beginning too!"
Mr. Stevens went off into a fit of laughter, and he was one of the men who laughed with merriment, so many are noisy and not merry. In the midst of this hilarity in walked a tall young man announcing himself, with an injured waiter in the background waving deprecating hands.
It was Paul Lyons.