and ... I
have a young ward living for the nonce in my house ... she is very rich,
and, I fear me, of a very romantic disposition ... I shall try to get
the man removed from hence, but until that is accomplished, I prefer to
know nothing about him ..."

"How wise of you, good Sir Marmaduke!" quoth Mistress Pyncheon with a
sigh of content.

A sentiment obviously echoed in the hearts of a good many people there
present.

"One knows these foreign adventurers," concluded Sir Marmaduke with
pleasant irony, "with their princely crowns and forlorn causes ... half
a million of English money would no doubt regild the former and bolster
up the latter."

He rose from his seat as he spoke, boldly encountering even as he did
so, a pair of wrathful and contemptuous girlish eyes fixed steadily upon
him.

"Shall we go within?" he said, addressing his guests, and returning his
young ward's gaze haughtily, even commandingly; "a cup of sack-posset
will be welcome after the fatigue of the game. Will you honor my poor
house, mistress? and you, too, ma'am? Gentlemen, you must fight among
yourselves for the privilege of escorting Lady Sue to the house, and if
she prove somewhat disdainful this beautiful summer's afternoon, I pray
you remember that faint heart never won fair lady, and that the citadel
is not worth storming an it is not obdurate."

The suggestion of sack-posset proved vastly to the liking of the merry
company. Mistress de Chavasse who had been singularly silent all the
afternoon, walked quickly in advance of her brother-in-law's guests, no
doubt in order to cast a scrutinizing eye over the arrangements of the
table, which she had entrusted to the servants.

Sir Marmaduke followed at a short distance, escorting the older women,
making somewhat obvious efforts to control his own irritability, and to
impart some sort of geniality to the proceedings.

Then in a noisy group in the rear came the three men still fighting for
the good graces of Lady Sue, whilst she, silent, absorbed, walked
leisurely along, paying no heed to the wrangling of her courtiers, her
fingers tearing up with nervous impatience the delicate cups of the
acorns, which she then threw from her with childish petulance.

And her eyes still sought the distance beyond the boundaries of Sir
Marmaduke's private grounds, there where cornfields and sky and sea were
merged by the summer haze into a glowing line of emerald and purple and
gold.

CHAPTER IV