“Who on earth can that be?” muttered Aunt Effie, dumping her basket and shears behind Sabrina’s chair and pulling off the disreputable gloves she wore to garden in. “Just at tea-time, too, and with your father away for the afternoon. Be quiet, Bella, it isn’t burglars anyway, in broad daylight! We shall have to offer him tea, I suppose. Tell Jennie to bring another cup, Sabrina, while I go and see who it is. He might have the wrong house— Don’t be such a noisy girl, Bella, it’s not polite!”

Preceded by the fat, yapping little dog, Aunt Effie crossed the grass towards the car. Sabrina had got out of her chair and stood watching, a thumping in her chest— the door on the near side of the car was opening— “Bring another cup, please, Jennie”— “Yes, miss”—and now he was coming towards her with Aunt Effie beside him and Bella bouncing and barking in front.

Sabrina as she faced them realized that her knees were shaking and her hands were icy paws. He had taken off his hat now and carried it in his hand, uncovering nondescript blondish hair well flattened down on a roundish head above a big neck. The collar of his blue shirt was a bit too tight. His fair, soft skin had sunburned a bright pink. Expensive tailoring could not disguise the unyouthful bulkiness of his body in gray flannels. But this was never Hilary....

“—well, yes, I could do with a spot of tea.” His voice could be heard now, with its flat Mayfair note. “I had rather a scratch lunch in Town soon after twelve.”

“You’ve driven all the way down from London since lunch time?” cried Aunt Effie, suitably impressed.

“Oh, rath-er! The old bus will touch eighty, you know, without turnin’ a hair.” Very off-hand about it.

No, no, not Hilary—please God, don’t let Hilary be like this....

“Well, we’re very glad to have you join us at tea,” Aunt Effie was saying cordially. “Do be quiet, Bella! Especially as Sabrina and I are all alone this afternoon and—. This is my niece Sabrina. This is Mr. Shenstone, dear.”

“How do you do?” said Sabrina faintly. Not my Mr. Shenstone—not Hilary. . .

“How d’ya do?” said the visitor, and his pale eyes rested a moment without interest on the white-faced girl who had risen to greet him, before they went on to the tea-table. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pilton, still turning out those marvelous tea-cakes, I see! I suppose I shall make a pig of myself, as usual!”

“This is Master Hilary’s favorite cake, sir—the one without currants. If you’d warned me you were coming, I could have made the other kind.”

Relief surged through Sabrina. This was George! But of course it was George, she had known all the time it could never, never be Hilary, who liked his cakes plain.