“I am so glad to see you here,” she declared.  “I hope that you will like some tea after your long ride.  Perhaps you would prefer Mr. Chetwode to help you out?”

“You are very kind,” Ruth murmured.  “I am sorry to be such a trouble to everybody.”

Arnold lifted her bodily out of the car and placed her on the edge of the lawn.  Fenella, a long parasol in her hand, was looking pleasantly down at her guest.

“You will find it quite picturesque here, I think,” she said.  “It is not really the river itself which comes to the end of the lawn, but a little stream.  It is so pretty, though, and so quiet.  I thought you would like to have tea down there.  But, my poor child,” she exclaimed, “your hair is full of dust!  You must come to my room.  It is on the ground floor here.  Mr. Chetwode and I together can help you so far.”

They turned back toward the house and passed into the cool white hall, the air of which was fragrant with the perfume of geraniums and clematis.  On the threshold of Fenella’s room they were alone for a moment.  Fenella was summoning her maid.  Ruth clung nervously to Arnold.  The room into which they looked was like a fairy chamber, full of laces and perfume and fine linen.

“Arnold,” she whispered, “you are sure that you did not know about coming here?”

“I swear that I had no idea,” he answered.  “I would not have thought of bringing you without telling you first.”

Then Fenella returned and he was banished into the garden.  At the end of the lawn he found Mr. Weatherley, half asleep in a wicker chair.  The latter was apparently maintaining his good spirits.

“Glad to see you, Chetwode,” he said.  “Sort of plot of my wife’s, I think.  Your young lady friend in the house?”

“Mrs. Weatherley was kind enough to take her to her room,” Arnold replied.  “We have had a most delightful ride, and I suppose it was dusty, although we never noticed it.”

Mr. Weatherley relit his cigar, which had gone out while he dozed.

“Thought we’d like a little country air ourselves for the week-end,” he remarked.  “Will you smoke?”

Arnold shook his head.

“Not just now, thank you, sir.  Is that the river through the trees there?”

Mr. Weatherley nodded.

“It’s about a hundred yards down the stream,” he replied.  “Bourne End is the nearest station.  The cottage belongs to my brother-in-law—­Sabatini.  I believe he’s coming down later on.  Any news at the office yesterday morning?”

“There was nothing whatever requiring your attention, sir,” Arnold said.  “There are a few letters which we have kept over for to-morrow, but nothing of importance.”

Mr. Weatherley pursed his lips and nodded.  He asked a further question or two concerning the business and then turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps.  Ruth, looking very pale and fragile, was leaning on the arm of a man-servant.  Fenella walked on the other side, her lace parasol drooping over her shoulder, her head turned towards Ruth’s, whose shyness she was doing her best to melt.  Mr. Weatherley rose hastily from his chair.