“Prince” went in to the open window of the breakfast-room, while Henry, moved by a thought, walked round the eastern angle of the house and looked up at the oriel window of the Grey Room, where it hung aloft on the side of the wall, like a brilliant bubble, and flashed with the sunshine that now irradiated the casement.  To his surprise he saw the window was thrown open and that May, still in his pyjamas, knelt on the cushioned recess within and looked out at the morning.

“Good lord, old chap!” he cried, “Needn’t ask you if you have slept.  It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

But the other made no response whatever.  He continued to gaze far away over Henry’s head at the sunrise, while the morning breeze moved his dark hair.

“Tom!  Wake up!” shouted Lennox again; but still the other did not move a muscle.  Then Henry noticed that he was unusually pale, and something about his unwinking eyes also seemed foreign to an intelligent expression.  They were set, and no movement of light played upon them.  It seemed that the watcher was in a trance.  Henry felt his heart jump, and a sensation of alarm sharpened his thought.  For him the morning was suddenly transformed, and fearing an evil thing had indeed befallen the other, he turned to the terrace and entered the breakfast-room from it.  The time was now five minutes to nine, and as unfailing punctuality had ever been a foible of Sir Walter, his guests usually respected it.  Most of them were already assembled, and Mary May, who was just stepping into the garden, asked Henry if he had seen her husband.

“He’s always the first to get up and the last to go to bed,” she said.

Bidding her good-morning, but not answering her question, the young man hastened through the room and ascended to the corridor.  Beneath, Ernest Travers, a being of fussy temperament with a heart of gold, spoke to Colonel Vane.  Travers was clad in Sunday black, for he respected tradition.

“Forgive me, won’t you, but this is your first visit, and you don’t look much like church.”

“Must we go to church, too?” asked the colonel blankly.  He was still a year under forty, but had achieved distinction in the war.  “There is no ‘must’ about it, but Sir Walter would appreciate the effort on your part.  He likes his guests to go.  He is one of those men who are a light to this generation—­an ancient light, if you like, but a shining one.  He loves sound maxims.  You may say he runs his life on sound maxims.  He lives charitably with all men and it puzzles him, as it puzzles me, to understand the growing doubt, the class prejudice—­nay, class hatred the failure of trust and the increasing tension and uneasiness between employer and employed.  He and I are agreed that the tribulations of the present time can be traced to two disasters only—­the lack of goodwill—­as shown in the proletariat, whose leaders teach them to respect nobody, and the weakening hold of religion as also revealed in the proletariat.  Now, to combat these things and set a good example is our duty—­nay, our privilege.  Don’t you think so?”