Off they scamper for a peep through the windows of the house.  They throng the sill of the library, ears acock and eyelids twittering admiration of a prospect.  Euphemia was in view of them—­essence of her.  Sir Rebus was at her side.  Nothing slips the goblins.

“Nymph in the Heavy Dragoons” was Mrs. Cryptic-Sparkler’s famous definition of her.  The County took it for final—­an uncut gem with a fleck in the heart of it.  Euphemia condoned the imagery.  She had breadth.  Heels that spread ample curves over the ground she stood on, and hands that might floor you with a clench of them, were hers.  Grey eyes looked out lucid and fearless under swelling temples that were lost in a ruffling copse of hair.  Her nose was virginal, with hints of the Iron Duke at most angles.  Square chin, cleft centrally, gave her throat the look of a tower with a gun protrudent at top.  She was dressed for church evidently, but seemed no slave to Time.  Her bonnet was pushed well back from her head, and she was fingering the ribbons.  One saw she was a woman.  She inspired deference.

“Forefinger for Shepherd’s Crook” was what Mrs. Cryptic-Sparkler had said of Sir Rebus.  It shall stand at that.

“You have Prayer Book?” he queried.

She nodded.  Juno catches the connubial trick.

“Hymns?”

“Ancient and Modern.”

“I may share with you?”

“I know by heart.  Parrots sing.”

“Philomel carols,” he bent to her.

“Complaints spoil a festival.”

He waved hand to the door.  “Lady, your father has started.”

“He knows the adage.  Copy-books instil it.”

“Inexorable truth in it.”

“We may dodge the scythe.”

“To be choked with the sands?”

She flashed a smile.  “I would not,” he said, “that my Euphemia were late for the Absolution.”

She cast eyes to the carpet.  He caught them at the rebound.

“It snows,” she murmured, swimming to the window.

“A flake, no more.  The season claims it.”

“I have thin boots.”

“Another pair?”

“My maid buttons.  She is at church.”

“My fingers?”

“Ten on each.”

“Five,” he corrected.

“Buttons.”

“I beg your pardon.”

She saw opportunity.  She swam to the bell-rope and grasped it for a tinkle.  The action spread feminine curves to her lover’s eyes.  He was a man.

Obsequiousness loomed in the doorway.  Its mistress flashed an order for port—­two glasses.  Sir Rebus sprang a pair of eyebrows on her.  Suspicion slid down the banisters of his mind, trailing a blue ribbon.  Inebriates were one of his hobbies.  For an instant she was sunset.

“Medicinal,” she murmured.

“Forgive me, Madam.  A glass, certainly.  ’Twill warm us for worshipping.”