hour later, as he removed the dust of travel from his
person, preparatory to an interview with Mrs. de Tracy. "Now for it!"

He liked the drawing room at Stoke Revel and always wished it had
other occupants when he entered it. This afternoon it seemed
particularly agreeable, the open windows letting in the slanting
sunshine and a strong scent of jonquils and sweet briar.

"Well, Mrs. de Tracy," said Mark, "I am my father's spokesman, you
know, and we have serious business to discuss. But tell me first,
how's my young friend Carnaby?"

"Thank you; my grandson has a severe attack of quinsy," replied Mrs.
de Tracy. "He is to have sick-leave whenever the Endymion returns to
Portsmouth."

"Oh! Carnaby will make short work of an attack of quinsy," said
Lavendar, genially.

"It would please me better," retorted Mrs. de Tracy severely, "if my
grandson showed signs of mental improvement as well as bodily health.
His letters are ill-spelled, ill-written, and ill-expressed. They are
the letters of a school-boy."

"He is not much more than a school-boy, is he?" suggested Mark, "only
fifteen! The mental improvement will come; too soon, for my taste. I
like Carnaby as he is!"

The young man had seated himself beside his hostess in an attitude of
perfect ease. Though bored by his present environment, he was entirely
at home in it. Just because he greatly dared towards her and was never
afraid, Mrs. de Tracy liked him. With the mere flicker of an eyelid,
she dismissed the attendant Smeardon.

"There has been an offer for the land at Wittisham," Lavendar said,
when they were alone.

Mrs. de Tracy winced. "That is no matter of congratulation with me,"
she said bleakly.

"But it is with us, for it is a most excellent one!" returned the
young man hardily. "The firm has had the responsibility of advising
the sale, which we consider absolutely unavoidable in the present
financial condition of Stoke Revel. We have advertised for a year, and
advertisement is costly. Now comes an offer of a somewhat peculiar
kind, but sound enough." Lavendar here produced a bundle of documents
tied with the traditional red tape. "An artist," he continued,
"Waller, R. A.--you know the name?"

"I do not," interpolated Mrs. de Tracy grimly.

"Nevertheless, a well known painter," persisted Mark, "and one, as it
happens, of the orchard scenery of this part of England. He has known
Wittisham for a long time, and only last year he made a success with