“My house is an old one,” replied Roxholm, “and if I live I shall be its chief.”

My lord cast a glance about the apartment.  It was a gala day and there were many lovely creatures near, laughing, conversing, coquetting, bearing themselves with dignity, airiness, or sweet grace.  There were beauties who were brown, and beauties who were fair; there were gay charmers and grave ones, those who were tall and commanding, and those who were small and nymph-like.

“There is none here to match you,” he said with an imperturbable gravity (’twas plain he was not trifling, but thinking some serious and unusual thoughts).  “A man of your build has needs out of the common.  No pretty, idle young thing will do.  She should have beauty, and that which is more.  ’Tis a strange kinship—­marriage.  No; she has not yet come to court.”

“I will wait until she does,” Roxholm answered, and his youthful face was as grave as the hero’s own, though if triflers had heard their words, they would have taken their talk for idle persiflage and jest.

CHAPTER VII

“’Tis Clo Wildairs, Man—­All the County Knows the Vixen.”

A month later he went to Warwickshire at my Lord Dunstanwolde’s invitation.  In that part of the county which borders upon Gloucestershire was his Lordship’s seat, which was known as Dunstan’s Wolde.  ’Twas an ancient and beautiful estate, and his Lordship spent his quiet and secluded life upon it, much beloved by his tenantry, and respected by his neighbours.  Since his young wife’s death his manner of living had become more secluded year after year; his library, his memories, and the administration of his estates filled his days with quiet occupation.

“Perhaps I am a selfish fellow to ask a young gentleman who is a favourite at Court to come and bury himself with me,” he said to Roxholm the night of his arrival, “but you and I have spent many a good quiet hour together, Gerald,” laying an affectionate hand upon his broad shoulder.  “And if you were my son you would come, I know.”

“Think of me as your son,” said Roxholm with his fine smile.  “A man is the richer for the love of two fathers.”

“Oxford has not changed you, Roxholm,” said the Earl.  “Nor have the Court ladies’ flatteries spoiled your kindly manners.  We shall be happy together, for awhile at least.”

They were indeed happy, spending their days much as they had spent them at Camylott—­riding together, taking long sauntering walks, reading old books and new ones, and in these days conversing on maturer subjects.  There was indeed much to talk of at this closing of a reign which had been full of struggles with problems affecting not only England but all the European powers.  What the Peace of Ryswick had effected, what the death of Charles of Spain would bring, whether Louis would play fairly, how long King William’s broken frame would last, what the power of the Marlboroughs would be when the Princess Anne came to the throne—­all these things they discussed together, and in their arguments my Lord Dunstanwolde was often roused to the wonder other ripe minds had felt in coming in contact with the activity and daring of this younger one.