seemed to see him as he had stood in front of me, declining to accord me recognition. And when Mr. Groome advanced, holding out his hand in welcome, the likeness between the pianist and my host was so strangely startling that, in an impulse of momentary mental aberration, I exclaimed—
"Mr. Goad!"
Mr. Groome stared—as Mr. Goad had done, with just the same curious characteristic little smile about his lips.
"Attree! What's the matter?"
It was only when he spoke that I became conscious of the blunder I had made. The blood surged through my veins. I blushed like a schoolboy. I have seldom felt so stupid.
"Really, Mr. Groome, I beg your pardon, but, do you know, I—I was mistaking you for a ghost."
"A solid sort of ghost, I fancy. Does that feel like a ghost?" His strong, hearty grasp did not feel like a ghost's. "How are you? You will only just have time to dress before dinner."
I did only just have time. Directly I appeared in the drawing-room a move was made for the dining-room. The soup had been removed when Ethel Groome—Miss Groome—said, addressing me from the other side of the table—
"Mr. Attree, what is this Mr. Dawson tells me about your having seen someone just like papa in town?"
I do not know what Nora thought of my behaviour. All the time I had been eating my soup I could not keep myself from glancing at my host at the head of the tabla. It was not very many hours since I had
