t
established principle, bordered the stretch of turf between the gravel
drive and road; and these elms were the homes of rooks of all birds the
most conventional. A huge aspen--impressionable creature--shivered
and shook beyond, apologising for appearance among such imperturbable
surroundings. It was frequented by a cuckoo, who came once a year to
hoot at the rules of life, but seldom made long stay; for boys threw
stones at it, exasperated by the absence of its morals.

The village which clustered in the dip had not yet lost its dread of
motor-cars. About this group of flat-faced cottages with gabled roofs
the scent of hay, manure, and roses clung continually; just now the
odour of the limes troubled its servile sturdiness. Beyond the dip,
again, a square-towered church kept within grey walls the record of
the village flock, births, deaths, and marriages--even the births of
bastards, even the deaths of suicides--and seemed to stretch a hand
invisible above the heads of common folk to grasp the forgers of the
manor-house. Decent and discreet, the two roofs caught the eye to
the exclusion of all meaner dwellings, seeming to have joined in a
conspiracy to keep them out of sight.

The July sun had burned his face all the way from Oxford, yet pale was
Shelton when he walked up the drive and rang the bell.

"Mrs. Dennant at home, Dobson?" he asked of the grave butler, who, old
servant that he was, still wore coloured trousers (for it was not yet
twelve o'clock, and he regarded coloured trousers up to noon as a sacred
distinction between the footmen and himself).

"Mrs. Dennant," replied this personage, raising his round and hairless
face, while on his mouth appeared that apologetic pout which comes of
living with good families--"Mrs. Dennant has gone into the village, sir;
but Miss Antonia is in the morning-room."

Shelton crossed the panelled, low-roofed hall, through whose far side
the lawn was visible, a vision of serenity. He mounted six wide, shallow
steps, and stopped. From behind a closed door there came the sound of
scales, and he stood, a prey to his emotions, the notes mingling in his
ears with the beating of his heart. He softly turned the handle, a fixed
smile on his lips.

Antonia was at the piano; her head was bobbing to the movements of her
fingers, and pressing down the pedals were her slim monotonously moving
feet. She had been playing tennis, for a racquet and her tam-o'-shanter
were flung down, and