Waring isn't here to-day, is he?" the olive-brown
girl put in, looking around with quite an eager interest at the
crowd in the distance. "Naturally, to me, he's THE Mr. Waring, of
course, and you are only MY Mr. Waring's brother."
"Elma, my dear, what on earth will Mr. Waring think of you?"
her mother put in, with the conventional shocked face of British
propriety. "You know," she went on, turning round quickly to Guy,
"we're all so grateful to your brother for his kindness to our girl
in that dreadful accident the other day at Lavington, that we can't
help thinking and talking of him all the time as our Mr. Waring. I'm
sorry he isn't here himself this afternoon to receive our thanks.
It would be such a pleasure to all of us to give them to him in
person."
"Oh, he is about, somewhere," Guy answered carelessly, still
keeping his eye fixed hard on the pretty girl. "I'll fetch him
round by-and-by to pay his respects in due form. He'll be only too
glad. And this, I suppose, must be Miss Clifford that I've heard
so much about."
As he said those words, a little gleam of pleasure shot through
Elma's eyes. Her painter hadn't forgotten her, then. He had talked
much about her.
"Yes, I knew who you must be the very first moment I saw you," she
answered, blushing; "you're so much like him in some ways, though
not in all.
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