that might last for days.  His companions, to whom his mystical studies were a favourite jest, were wont to assert that on these occasions he was preparing for a visit from his familiar, but the joke was one that he never could be prevailed upon to appreciate.  The fact of the matter was that these fits of gloom were constitutional with him, and very possibly had their origin in the state of his mother’s mind before his birth, when her whole thoughts were coloured by her morbid and fanciful terror of her husband, and her frantic anxiety to conciliate him.

During the three years that he spent at college, Philip saw but little of George, since, when he happened to be down at Bratham, which was not often, for he spent most of his vacations abroad, George avoided coming there as much as possible.  Indeed, there was a tacit agreement between the two young men that they would see as little of each other as might be convenient.  But, though he did not see much of him himself, Philip was none the less aware that George’s influence over his father was, if anything, on the increase.  The old squire’s letters were full of him and of the admirable way in which he managed the estate, for it was now practically in his hands.  Indeed, to his surprise and somewhat to his disgust, he found that George began to be spoken of indifferently with himself as the “young squire.”  Long before his college days had come to an end Philip had determined that he would do his best, as soon as opportunity offered, to reduce his cousin to his proper place, not by the violent means to which he had resorted in other days, but rather by showing himself to be equally capable, equally assiduous, and equally respectful and affectionate.

At last the day came when he was to bid farewell to Oxford for good, and in due course he found himself in a second-class railway carriage —­thinking it useless to waste money, he always went second—­and bound for Roxham.

Just before the train left the platform at Paddington, Philip was agreeably surprised out of his meditations by the entry into his carriage of an extremely elegant and stately young lady, a foreigner as he judged from her strong accent when she addressed the porter.  With the innate gallantry of twenty-one, he immediately laid himself out to make the acquaintance of one possessed of such proud, yet melting blue eyes, such lovely hair, and a figure that would not have disgraced Diana; and, with this view, set himself to render her such little services as one fellow-traveller can offer to another.  They were accepted reservedly at first, then gratefully, and before long the reserve broke down entirely, and this very handsome pair dropped into a conversation as animated as the lady’s broken English would allow.  The lady told him that her name was Hilda von Holtzhausen, that she was of a German family, and had come to England to enter a family as companion, in order to obtain a perfect knowledge of the English language.  She had already been to France and acquired French; when she knew English, then she had been promised a place as school-mistress under government in her own country.  Her father and mother were dead, and she had no brothers or sisters, and very few friends.