not."

"What would happen to me if I were?"

"Why," he said with innocent enthusiasm, "you would have _your_ reward,
too, Mrs. Dysart."

"The sort of reward which I heard you bestow a few moments ago upon that
maid? I'm no longer the latter, so I suppose I'm not entitled to it, am
I?"

The smile still edged her pretty mouth; there was an instant when
matters looked dubious for her; but a door opened somewhere, and, still
smiling, she slipped by him and vanished into a neighbouring corridor.

Howker, the old butler, met him at the foot of the stairs.

"Tea is served on the Long Terrace, sir. Mr. Seagrave wishes to know
whether you would care to see the trout jumping on the Gray Water this
evening? If so, you are please not to stop for tea, but go directly to
the Sachem's Gate. Redmond will guide you, sir."

[Illustration: "'This is one of those rare occasions ... where goodness
is amply ... rewarded.'"]

"All right, Howker," said Duane absently; and strolled on along the
hall, thinking of Mrs. Dysart.

The front doors swung wide, opening on the Long Terrace, which looked
out across a valley a hundred feet below, where a small lake glimmered
as still as a mirror against a background of golden willows and low
green mountains.

There were a number of young people pretending to take tea on the
terrace; and some took it, and others took other things. He knew them
all, and went forward to greet them. Geraldine Seagrave, a new and
bewitching coat of tan tinting cheek and neck, held out her hand with
all the engaging frankness of earlier days. Her clasp was firm, cool,
and nervously cordial--the old confident affection of childhood once
more.

"I am _so_ glad you came, Duane. I've really missed you." And sweeping
the little circle with an eager glance; "You know everybody, I think.
The Dysarts have not yet appeared, and Scott is down at the Gate Lodge.
Come and sit by me, Duane."

Two or three girls extended their hands to him--Sylvia Quest, shy and
quiet; Muriel Wye, white-skinned, black-haired, red-lipped, red-cheeked,
with eyes like melted sapphires and the expression of a reckless saint;
and his blond sister, Naida, who had arrived that afternoon from the
Tappans' at Iron Hill, across the mountain.

Delancy Grandcourt, uncouth and highly coloured, stood up to shake
hands; Bunbury Gray, a wiry, bronzed little polo-playing squadron man,
hailed Duane with enthusiasm.

"Awfully glad to see you, Bunny," said D