improvements. She walked to the windows.

"What a funny, old-fashioned garden! Quite medieval! I foresee a
very busy time in store. Who lives on the other side of this
property?"

"Preston--George Preston, the M.F.H.," said her husband, lounging
up behind her. "About the richest man about here. Made his money
on the Turf."

She gave him a quick look. "Is he young?" she asked.

He hesitated, "Not very."

"Married?" questioned Mrs. Ingleton, with the air of a ferret
pursuing its quarry down a hole.

"No," said the squire, somewhat reluctantly.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Ingleton, in a tone of satisfaction.

"Won't you have some tea?" said Sylvia's grave voice behind them.

Mrs. Ingleton wheeled. "Bless the child!" she exclaimed. "She has
a face as long as a fiddle. Let us have tea by all means. I am as
hungry as a hunter. I hope there is something really substantial
for us."

"It is less than an hour to dinner," said Sylvia.

She hardly looked at her father. Somehow she had a feeling that he
did not want to meet her eyes.

He sat in almost unbroken silence while she poured out the tea,
"for the last time, dear," as her step-mother jocosely remarked,
and for his sake alone she exerted herself to make polite
conversation with this new mistress of the Manor.

It was not easy, for Mrs. Ingleton did not want to talk upon
indifferent subjects. Her whole attitude was one of unconcealed
triumph. It was obvious that she meant to enjoy her conquest to
the utmost. She was not in the least tired after her journey; she
was one of those people who never tire. And as soon as she had
refreshed herself with tea she announced her intention of going
round the house.

Her husband, however, intervened upon this point, assuring her that
there would be ample time in the morning, and Mrs. Ingleton yielded
it not very gracefully.

She was placed at the head of the table at dinner, but she could
not accept the position without comment.

"Poor little Sylvia! We shall have to make up for this, or I shall
never be forgiven," with an arch look at the squire which
completely missed its mark.

There were no subtleties about Gilbert Ingleton. He was thoroughly
uncomfortable, and his manner proclaimed the fact aloud. If he
were happy with his enchantress away from home, the home atmosphere
completely dispelled all enchantment. Was it the fault of the
slim, erect girl with the red-brown eyes who sat so gravely silent
on