As he alighted from the car and drew off his fur glove the Prince—who was staying incognito as Mr Drummond—introduced him to his hostess, before whom he bowed, while she, in turn, said:
“This is my daughter, Elfrida—Mr Hebberdine.”
Garrett bowed again. Their eyes met, and next instant the young man wished heartily that he had never come there. The Prince had not exaggerated her beauty. She was absolutely perfect. In all the years he had been a wanderer he had never seen such dainty chic, such tiny hands and feet, or such a sweet face with its soft pink cheeks and its red lips made for kisses. She could not have been more than eighteen or so, yet about her was none of the gaucherie of the school-girl. He noticed that she dropped her eyes quickly, and upon her cheeks arose just the soupçon of a blush.
“Had a good run, Herbert?” asked the Prince as he entered the big hall of the castle.
“Not very. The roads were infernally bad in places,” replied the other, “and the new metal between York and Newcastle is most annoying.”
“Good car, that of yours!” remarked the Parson, as though he had never seen it before, while his Highness declared that a six-cylinder was certainly the best of all.
After a whisky and soda, brought by the grave, antiquated butler, Garrett drove the car round to the garage some little distance from the house, where he found three fine cars belonging to his host.
Then, as he went to his room to change for dinner, he passed his Highness on the stairs.
“The game’s quite easy,” whispered the latter as he halted for a second. “It remains for you to make the running with Elfrida. Only be careful. Old Blair-Stewart is pretty sly—as you’ll see.”
At dinner in the long old-fashioned panelled room, hung with the portraits of what were supposed to be the ancestors of the Blair-Stewarts of Glenblair, Garrett first met the rather stout, coarse-featured shipbuilder who had assumed the head of that historic house, and had bought the estate at three times its market value. From the first moment of their meeting Garrett saw that he was a blatant parvenu of the worst type, for he began to talk of “my hothouses,” “my motors,” and “my yacht” almost in the first five minutes of their conversation.