It was quite dark by the time he entered the large open-roofed hall of the Court.

“Is his lordship in?” he asked of a passing footman.

“Yes, sir—­in the library.  He has been asking for you, sir.”

Aldous turned to the right along the fine corridor lighted with Tudor windows to an inner quadrangle, and filled with Graeco-Roman statuary and sarcophagi, which made one of the principal features of the Court.  The great house was warm and scented, and the various open doors which he passed on his way to the library disclosed large fire-lit rooms, with panelling, tapestry, pictures, books everywhere.  The colour of the whole was dim and rich; antiquity, refinement reigned, together with an exquisite quiet and order.  No one was to be seen, and not a voice was to be heard; but there was no impression of solitude.  These warm, darkly-glowing rooms seemed to be waiting for the return of guests just gone out of them; not one of them but had an air of cheerful company.  For once, as he walked through it, Aldous Raeburn spared the old house an affectionate possessive thought.  Its size and wealth, with all that both implied, had often weighed upon him.  To-night his breath quickened as he passed the range of family portraits leading to the library door.  There was a vacant space here and there—­“room for your missus, too, my boy, when you get her!” as his grandfather had once put it.

“Why, you’ve had a long day, Aldous, all by yourself,” said Lord Maxwell, turning sharply round at the sound of the opening door.  “What’s kept you so late?”

His spectacles fell forward as he spoke, and the old man shut them in his hand, peering at his grandson through the shadows of the room.  He was sitting by a huge fire, an “Edinburgh Review” open on his knee.  Lamp and fire-light showed a finely-carried head, with a high wave of snowy hair thrown back, a long face delicately sharp in the lines, and an attitude instinct with the alertness of an unimpaired bodily vigour.

“The birds were scarce, and we followed them a good way,” said Aldous, as he came up to the fire.  “Rickman kept me on the farm, too, a good while, with interminable screeds about the things he wants done for him.”

“Oh, there is no end to Rickman,” said Lord Maxwell, good-humouredly.  “He pays his rent for the amusement of getting it back again.  Landowning will soon be the most disinterested form of philanthropy known to mankind.  But I have some news for you!  Here is a letter from Barton by the second post”—­he named an old friend of his own, and a Cabinet Minister of the day.  “Look at it.  You will see he says they can’t possibly carry on beyond January.  Half their men are becoming unmanageable, and S——­’s bill, to which they are committed, will certainly dish them.  Parliament will meet in January, and he thinks an amendment to the Address will finish it.  All this confidential, of course; but he saw no harm in letting me know.  So now, my boy,