Lords, and as soon as he got a foot on the political ladder prospects would open.  On the whole, he thought, politics would be his line.  He had no personal axes to grind; was afraid of nothing; wouldn’t care if the Lords were done away with to-morrow, and could live on a fraction of his income if the Socialists insisted on grabbing the rest.  But the new world which the war had opened was a desperately interesting one.  He hadn’t enough at stake in it to spoil his nerve.  Whatever happened, he implied, he was steeled—­politically and intellectually.  Nothing could deprive him either of the joy of the fight, or the amusement of the spectacle.

And Cynthia, her honey-gold hair blown back from her white temples by the summer wind, her blue parasol throwing a summer shade about her, showed herself, as they strolled backwards and forwards over the shady lawn of the cottage, a mistress of the listening art; and there is no art more winning, either to men or women.

Then, in a moment, what broke the spell?  Some hint or question from her, of a more intimate kind?—­something that touched a secret place, wholly unsuspected by her?  She racked her brains afterwards to think what it could have been; but in vain.  All she knew was that the man beside her had suddenly stiffened.  His easy talk had ceased to flow; while still walking beside her, he seemed to be miles away.  So that by a quick common impulse both stood still.

“I must go back to the village,” said Cynthia.  She smiled, but her face had grown a little tired and faded.

He looked at his watch.

“And I told the car to fetch me half an hour ago.  You’ll be up some time perhaps—­luncheon to-morrow?—­or Sunday?”

“If I can.  I’ll do my best.”

“Kind Cynthia!” But his tone was perfunctory, and his eyes avoided her.  When he had gone, she could only wonder what she had done to offend him; and a certain dreariness crept into the evening light.  She was not the least in love with Philip—­that she assured herself.  But his sudden changes of mood were very trying to one who would like to be his friend.

Buntingford walked rapidly home.  His way lay through an oak wood, that was now a revel of spring; overhead, a shimmering roof of golden leaf and wild cherry-blossom, and underfoot a sea of blue-bells.  A winding path led through it, and through the lovely open and grassy spaces which from time to time broke up the density of the wood—­like so many green floors cleared for the wood nymphs’ dancing.  From the west a level sun struck through the trees, breaking through storm-clouds which had been rapidly filling the horizon, and kindling the tall trees, with their ribbed grey bark, till they shone for a brief moment like the polished pillars in the house of Odysseus.  Then a nightingale sang.  Nightingales were rare at Beechmark; and Buntingford would normally have hailed the enchanted flute-notes with a boyish delight.  But this evening they fell on deaf ears, and when the garish sunlight gave place to gloom, and drops of rain began to patter on the new leaf, the gathering storm, and the dark silence of the wood, after the nightingale had given her last trill, were welcome to a man struggling with a recurrent and desperate oppression.