It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with his guardian, offering to accompany him in the dog-cart to Brawnton, whither John was bound, to catch the noon express to town.

“You will have him all to yourself after this,” said John Crewys, smiling down upon Lady Mary during his brief farewell interview, which took place in the oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight, though not within hearing, of the two old sisters.  “I am sorry to take him off to Brawnton, but I could hardly refuse his company.”

“No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowing him better,” she said.

“And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake,” he said.  “Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or four months, without any remorse concerning me.  For the present, at least, I shall be hard at work, with little enough time to spare for sentiment.”  There was a tender raillery in his tone, which she understood.  “When I come back we will face the situation, according to circumstances.  By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of that Miss Sarah should prolong her Whitsuntide holidays much further?”

“She ought to have returned to town earlier, but Mrs. Hewel was ill,” said Lady Mary.  “She is a tiresome woman.  She moved heaven and earth to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had a succes, she is always clamouring for her to come back.”

“Ah!” said John, thoughtfully, “and you will moot to Peter the scheme for taking a house in town?  But I should advise you to be guided by his wishes over that.  Still, it would be very delightful to meet during our time of waiting; and that would be the only way.  I won’t come down here again until I can declare myself.  It is a—­false position, under the circumstances.”

“I know; I understand,” said Lady Mary; “but I am afraid Peter won’t want to stir from home.  He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one can hardly blame him; and he shares his father’s prejudices against London.”

“Does he, indeed?” said John, rather dryly.  “Well, make the most of your summer with him. You will get only too much London—­in the near future.”

“Perhaps,” Lady Mary said, smiling.

But, in spite of herself, John’s confidence communicated itself to her.

When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in the quiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace.  The thick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned and trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine.  Roses and lilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was still rather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing of the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.

A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies of branching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory of transparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here and there diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet clusters of a rhododendron in full flower.  Rare ferns fringed the edges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked in and out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed, glassy eyes.