"He has." Meriweather did not explain that Carew had failed in a crash and was out of the office altogether.
"Will you make yourself comfortable?" he said. "Sampson will bring you some tea and a sandwich or two. I am sure you need it—"
She smiled up at him, and he found something wistful and appealing in her manner. He wondered what she wanted of Carew and hoped that, whatever she wanted, she might get it.
He drew a chair for her to the fire. "There are plenty of books—and the magazines—"
"Thank you so much. I shall be all right, and glad to rest."
She took off her hat and thus proclaimed to him her lack of sophistication. The women he knew lived in their hats—ate in them, played cards in them. He sometimes wondered if they slept in them.
Without her hat, he was puzzled by a resemblance. Then, suddenly, he had it!
"You have the Carew top-knot," he told her. "Every one of them has that waved lock on the forehead."
She flushed a little. "I didn't know," she said. "I—I live in the West."
He pointed to a portrait over the mantel. "There's one of them," he said.
It was a dashing picture of a young man in the red coat of an English officer. Red cheeks, thin lips, cool gray eyes, and that sweep of black hair.
"Carew's great-grandfather—good-looking chap."
The girl's heart leaped. Her own great-great-grand-
