“Who for?” laughed Lord Tilchester, in his rough, gruff way.

“The recipients of the letters, who would certainly receive them in the wrong envelopes,” said Sir Antony.  “I think, Tilchester, you had better persuade Babykins to stay in England, for the sake of the peace of many respectable and innocent families.”

“How wicked you are to me,” flashed Babykins.

“Just what you deserve,” chuckled Lord Tilchester.

“What tiresome nonsense these people talk,” said Sir Antony, calmly, to me.  “You and I were in the middle of an interesting problem discussion, were we not?  And now I have lost the thread.”

“It does not in the least matter,” I said.

The Duke, who was on the other side of me, did not care to be left out, and persistently talked to me for the rest of lunch.

Sir Antony consumed his with the appreciation of a connoisseur.  It appeared to be the only thing which interested him.

Babykins, from the other side, did her utmost to engage him in a war of wits, but he remained calm, with the air of a placid lion.

When we got outside in the great tent he came up to me.

“I am going to take you for a walk,” he said—­“a nice, cool walk in the woods.  Will you get your parasol?”

The Duke was at that moment fetching it for me from the hall table, where I had left it.

“I do not know what we shall do to-day,” I said, “I believe I am going to play croquet.”

“Oh no, you are not.  It is much too hot, and you must see the woods.  They are historical, and—­Here, take this parasol and let us start.”  This last hurriedly, as the Duke was seen returning with mine.

I cannot say why I allowed myself to be dragged off like this.  My natural impulse has always been to do the opposite thing when ordered by any one but grandmamma.  But here I found myself walking meekly beside my kinsman down a yew-bordered path, holding a mauve silk parasol over my head which did not belong to me.

We did not speak until we got quite to the end, where there is a quaint fountain, the centre of four allees of clipped yews.

My heart still continued to beat in a quick, tiresome manner.

“You look changed, Comtesse,” Sir Antony said.  “Your little face is pale.  Do you remember the night we danced together?  It was round and rosy then.  Is it a hundred years ago?”

There is a something in his voice which is alluring.  The mocking sound goes out of it now and then, and when it does one feels as if one must listen.  Oh, but listen with both one’s ears!

“Yes, it is a hundred years ago,” I said.

“I was so sorry to hear of your grandmother’s death,” he continued.  “I wanted to tell you how I felt for you, but I was away in Norway, and have only just returned.  Did you think I was unkind?”

“No, I never thought at all.  Grandmamma was glad to die.  I knew she could not live, but it came suddenly at the end.”