They moved to the summer-house, and sat down upon the step.  About them was the Seven Sisters rose, and above towered the tulip tree with a mockingbird singing in its branches.  The place was filled with the odour of the box.  To the end of their lives the smell of box brought back that hour in the Fontenoy garden.  The green walls hid from view all without their little round.  They had not heard step or voice when suddenly, having strolled that way by accident, there emerged from the winding path into the space about the summer-house Colonel Churchill and Ludwell Cary.  There was a second’s utter check, then, “Sir!” cried the Colonel, in wrathful amazement.

The hands of the lovers fell apart.  Rand rose, but Jacqueline sat still, looking at her uncle with a paling cheek and a faint line between her brows.  The mockingbird sang on, but the garden appeared to darken and grow cold.  The place seemed filled with difficult breathing.  Then, before a word was spoken, Cary turned, made a slight gesture with his hand, and went away, disappearing between the lines of box.  The sound of his footsteps died in the direction of the stream and the dark wood.  Colonel Churchill moistened his lips and spoke in a thick voice.  “You scoundrel!  Was it for this?  You are a scoundrel, sir!”

“I have asked Miss Churchill to be my wife,” said Rand, with steadiness.  “She has consented.  I love your niece, sir, with all my heart, most truly, most dearly!  I will ask you to believe that it was not in my mind to speak to her to-day, or to speak at all without your knowledge.  I confess the impropriety of my course.  But we met unawares.  It is not to be helped.  In no way is she to blame.”

Jacqueline rose, came to her uncle, and tried to take his hand.  He repulsed her.  “Is this true—­what this man says?”

“Yes, yes,” said Jacqueline.  “It is true.  Oh, forgive him!”

The Colonel struck down her outstretched hands.  “I do not believe you are Henry’s child!  Your mother was a strange woman.  You are not a Churchill.  My God!  Henry’s child talking of marrying this—­this—­this gentleman.  You are mad, or I am mad.  Come away from him, Jacqueline!”

“I love him!” cried Jacqueline.  “Oh, Uncle Dick, Uncle Dick!—­”

“I loved your niece, sir, when I was a boy,” said Rand; “and I love her now that I am a man.  I grant that I should not have spoken to her to-day.  I ask your pardon for what may seem to you insult and thanklessness.  But the thing itself—­is it so impossible?  Why is it impossible that I should wed where I love with all my heart?” He broke a piece of the box beside him and drew it through his hands, then threw it away, and squarely faced the elder man.  “I had my way to make in life.  Well, I am making it fast.  I am making it faster, perhaps, than any other man in the county, be he who he may!  I am poor, but I am not so poor as once I was, and I shall be richer yet.  My want of wealth is perhaps the least—­why