“The fellow must be mistaken,” said I.  “This place has not the air of encouraging visitors;” but, before the words were out of my mouth, the enterprising cocher had rung the gate bell.

After an interval a gardener appeared, and betrayed such mild, ingenuous surprise at sight of us that I wished ourselves anywhere else than before the portals of the Chateau d’Aymaville.  Gladly would I have whipped up our fat, barrel-shaped nag, and driven into the nearest rabbit-hole, but it was too late.  The gardener took the enquiry as to whether visitors were admitted, with the gravity he would have given to a question in the catechism:  Is your name N. or M.?  Can one see your master’s house?

Oh, without doubt, one could see the house.  Would les messieurs kindly accompany him?  His aspect wept, and mine (unless it belied me) copied his.  “Isn’t it hateful?” I asked, sotto voce, of the Boy, expecting sympathy which I did not get.  “No, I think it’s great fun,” said he.

“But I’m sure they are not in the habit of showing the house.  You can tell by the man’s manner.  He’s nonplussed.  I should think no one has ever had the cheek to apply for permission before.”

“Then they ought to be complimented because we have.”

I was silenced, though far from convinced; but if you have made an engagement with an executioner, it is a point of honour not to sneak off and leave him in the lurch, when he has taken the trouble to sharpen his axe, and put on his red suit and mask for your benefit.

We arrived, after a walk through a pretty garden, upon a terrace where there was a marvellous view.  The gardener showed it to us solemnly, we pacing after him all round the chateau, as if we played a game.  At the open front door we were left alone for a few minutes, heavy with suspense, while our guide held secret conclave with a personable woman who was no doubt a housekeeper.  Astonished, but civil, with dignified Italian courtesy she finally invited us in, and I was coward enough to let the Boy lead, I following with a casual air, meant to show that I had been dragged into this business against my will; that I was, in fact, the tail of a comet which must go where the cornet leads.

Everywhere, inside the castle, were traces that the family had fled with precipitation.  Here was a bicycle leaning abject against a wall; there, an open book thrown on the floor; here, a fallen chair; there, a dropped piece of sewing.

Once or twice in England, I had stayed in a famous show-house, and my experience on the public Thursdays there had taught me what these people were enduring now.  At Waldron Castle we had been hunted from pillar to post; if we darted from the hall into a drawing-room, the public would file in before we could escape to the boudoir; the lives of foxes in the hunting season could have been little less disturbed than ours, and we were practically only safe in our own or each other’s bedrooms—­indeed, any port was precious in a storm.