Sir John breathed again.

"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am very
impertinent. I know I have no right to question you."

"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me," she answered,
gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes that
came into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best.

They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lane
beyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or his
cottage, had come into either of their heads by the way.

Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too.

"I thought--it seemed to me by what I overheard," he said, hesitatingly,
"that they were tormenting you--persecuting you, perhaps--into a marriage
you do not wish for."

"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne," Vera admitted, in a low
voice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed on
the ground.

"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listen
to them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously.

Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled.

"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne," she
answered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make me
betray that poor man's secrets."

And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her if
she would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought would
carry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queen
accepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her as
heartily as though she had promised him some great thing.

"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage," she said, smiling. And they
turned back towards the village.

CHAPTER VI.

A SOIREE AT WALPOLE LODGE.

When the lute is broken,
Sweet notes are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute.

Shelley.

About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roads
between Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house,
within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brick
wall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores within
the immediate neighbourhood of London--of which there still are