It was of Elizabeth that Mrs. Gaddesden was thinking as she sat alone in the hall.  From her seat she could perceive a shrubbery walk in the garden outside, along which two figures were pacing—­Miss Bremerton and the new agent.  Beyond, at some distance, she was aware of another group disappearing among the trees of the park—­Pamela with Captain Chicksands and Beryl.

This was the first time that any member of the Chicksands family had been a guest at Mannering since the quarrel in the autumn.  The Squire had not yet brought himself to shake hands with Sir Henry.  But Beryl on the one side, and Pamela on the other—­aided and abetted always by Elizabeth Bremerton—­had been gradually breaking down the embargo; and when, hearing from Beryl that her brother Arthur was with them for a few days, Pamela had openly proposed in her father’s presence to ask them both to luncheon, the Squire had pretended not to hear, but had at any rate raised no objection.  And when the brother and sister arrived, he had received them as though nothing had happened.  His manners were always brusque and ungracious, except in the case of persons who specially mattered to his own pursuits, such as archaeologists and Greek professors.  But the Chetworth family were almost as well acquainted with his ways as his own, and his visitors took them philosophically.  Arthur Chicksands had kept the table alive at luncheon with soldier stories, and the Squire’s sulky or sarcastic silence had passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Gaddesden’s mind was very full of the Captain’s good looks and distinction.  He was now in London, at the War Office, it seemed, for a short time, on a special mission; hence his occasional weekends with his family.  When the mission was over—­so Beryl told Pamela—­he was probably going out to an important appointment in the Intelligence Department at G.H.Q.  ‘Arthur’s a great swell,’ said Beryl, ’though as to what he’s done, or what people think of him, you have to dig it out of him—­if you can!’

Mrs. Gaddesden did not very much like him.  His brusque sincerity made people of her sort uncomfortable.  But she would have liked very much to know whether there was anything up between him and Pamela.  Really, Miss Bremerton’s discretion about such things was too tiresome—­ridiculous—­almost rude!  It was no good trying, even, to discuss them with her.

As to the disinheriting of Aubrey, no more had been heard of it.  Miss Bremerton had told Aubrey when he was at home for twenty-four hours at Christmas that, as far as she knew, the codicil was still unsigned.  But Aubrey didn’t seem to care the least whether it was or no.  If Beryl wished him to raise the question again with his father, of course he would; otherwise he greatly preferred to leave it alone.  And as Beryl had no will or wishes but his, and was, in Alice’s opinion, only too absurdly and dependently in love, the sleeping dogs were very much asleep; and the secret of Mannering’s future disposal lay hid impenetrably in the Squire’s own breast.