John Derringham was in a bad temper.  That unaccountable sense of a discordant note with himself still stayed with him.  He unconsciously, during his walk, had dwelt upon the Professor’s information as to the view of the old ladies of The Chase, and then Halcyone’s silence and stiffness.  He felt excluded from the place which he recollected he had held in the child’s regard.  His memory had jumped the brief glimpse of her during her fledgling period, and had gone back with distinct vividness to the summer morning in the tree, almost seven years ago.

He answered with a carelessness which was not altogether pleasing to Cecilia Cricklander.  She saw instantly that her favorite guest was ruffled by something.  Although never fine, she was quick at observing all the moods of her pawns, and had brought the faculty of watching for signs from castles, knights and kings to a science.  John Derringham must be humored and cajoled by a proof of her great understanding of him—­he must be left in silence for a minute, and then she would pause and look over the balustrade, so that he might see her handsome profile and take in the exquisite simplicity of her perfect dress.  She knew these things pleased him.  She would look a little sad, too, and far away.

It had its effect.

“What are you dreaming about, fair chatelaine?” he asked after a while.  “Your charming mouth has its corners drooped.”

“I was wondering—­” and then she stopped.

“Yes?” asked John Derringham.  “You were wondering what?”

“I was wondering if one could ever get you to really take an interest in anything but your politics, and your England’s advancement?  How good it would be if one could interest you for a moment in anything else.”

He leaned upon the balustrade beside her.

“You are talking nonsense,” he said.  “You know very well that you interest me every time I see you—­and it is growing upon me.  That was not the only thing revolving in your clever mind.”

“Yes, indeed,” and she looked down.

“Well, then, I am interested in your garden.  What do you think of doing?  Tell me.”

She explained an elaborate plan, and quoted the names of famous gardeners and their styles, with her accustomed erudition.  For had not Arabella got them up for her only that morning, as she smoked her seventh cigarette in bed?  She inclined to French things, and she thought that this particular part—­a mere rough bit of the park—­could very well be laid out as a Petit Trianon.  She could procure copies of the plans of Mique, and even have a Temple d’Amour.

“I love to create,” she said.  “The place would not have amused me if everything had been complete, and if you will help me I shall be so grateful.”

“Of course I will,” he said.  “The Temple d’Amour would look quite well up upon that rising ground, and you could have a small winding lake dug to complete the illusion.  Nothing is impossible, and I suppose you can get permission from the old Wendover who lives in Rome to do what you wish?”