The little lady who was now, till Philip’s majority and marriage, mistress of Martindale, was a small, soft, tremulous person, without the intelligence of her daughter, but by no means without character.  Secretly she had often felt oppressed by her surroundings.  Whenever Philip married, she would find it no hardship at all to retire to the dower house at the edge of the park.  Meanwhile she did her best to uphold the ancient ways.  But if she sometimes found Martindale oppressive—­too old, too large, too rich, too perfect—­how was it going to strike a young Canadian, fresh from the prairies, who had never been in England before?

A sudden sound of many footsteps in the hall.  The drawing-room door was thrown open by Philip, and a troop of men entered.  A fresh-coloured man with grizzled hair led the van.

“Well, Mrs. Gaddesden, here we all are.  Philip has given us a capital day!”

A group of men followed him; the agent of the property, two small neighbouring squires, a broad-browed burly man in knickerbockers, who was apparently a clergyman, to judge from his white tie, the adjutant of the local regiment, and a couple of good-looking youths, Etonian friends of Philip.  Elizabeth and Mariette came in from the garden, and a young cousin of the Gaddesdens, a Miss Lucas, slipped into the room under Elizabeth’s wing.  She was a pretty girl, dressed in an elaborate demi-toilette of white chiffon, and the younger men of the party in their shooting dress—­with Philip at their head—­were presently clustered thick about her, like bees after pollen.  It was clear, indeed, that Philip was paying her considerable attention, and as he laughed and sparred with her, the transient colour that exercise had given him disappeared, and a pale look of excitement took its place.

Mariette glanced from one to another with a scarcely disguised curiosity.  This was only his third visit to England and he felt himself in a foreign country.  That was a pasteur he supposed, in the gaiters—­grotesque!  And why was the young lady in evening dress, while Lady Merton, now that she had thrown off her furs, appeared in the severest of tweed coats and skirts?  The rosy old fellow beside Mrs. Gaddesden was, he understood from Lady Merton, the Lord Lieutenant of the county.

But at that moment his hostess laid hands upon him to present him to her neighbour.  “Monsieur Mariette—­Lord Waynflete.”

“Delighted to see you,” said the great man affably, holding out his hand.  “What a fine place Canada is getting!  I am thinking of sending my third son there.”

Mariette bowed.

“There will be room for him.”

“I am afraid he hasn’t brains enough to do much here—­but perhaps in a new country—­”

“He will not require them?  Yes, it is a common opinion,” said Mariette, with composure.  Lord Waynflete stared a little, and returned to his hostess.  Mariette betook himself to Elizabeth for tea, and she introduced him to the girl in white, who looked at him with enthusiasm, and at once threw over her bevy of young men, in favour of the spectacled and lean-faced stranger.