One day we were all called upon to admire Sara’s new signature, ’Sara Ferguson,’ written in bold, girlish characters.  ’Donald is looking over my shoulder as I write it, dear mamma,’ Sara wrote, in a long postscript.  ’Are husbands always so impertinent?  Donald pretends that it is part of his duty to see that I dot my i’s and cross my t’s:  he will talk such nonsense.  There, he has gone off laughing, and I may end comfortably by telling you that he spoils me dreadfully and is so good to me, and that I am happier than I deserve to be, and your very loving child, Sara.’

‘Poor darling! she always did make her own sunshine,’ murmured Aunt Philippa fondly.

Now, that afternoon who should call upon us but Mr. Tudor?  Jill was out, as usual, riding with two of her cousins and Uncle Brian; they had gone off to Kew or Richmond for the afternoon; but Aunt Philippa, who had been dozing in her easy-chair by the window, welcomed the young man very kindly, and made him promise to stay to dinner.

Mr. Tudor tried not to look too much pleased as he accepted the invitation.  A sort of blush crossed his honest face as he turned to me:  he had two or three messages to deliver, he said.  Mr. Cunliffe had given him one, and Mrs. Barton, and Lady Betty.  She, Lady Betty, wanted me to know that Miss Darrell was going to Brighton for a week or ten days, and that she hoped I should come home before then.

I heard, too, that Mr. Hamilton had gone to Folkestone, and that he had tried to induce Uncle Max to go with him.  ’But it is no use telling him he wants a change,’ finished Mr. Tudor, with a sigh; ’he is bent on wearing himself out for other people.’

Mr. Tudor and I chatted on for the remainder of the afternoon.  I had taken him out on the balcony:  there were an awning and some chairs, and we could sit there in comparative privacy looking down on the passers-by.  Aunt Philippa was nodding again:  we could hear her regular breathing behind us:  poor woman! she was worn out with bustle and gaiety.  I was thankful that a grand horticultural fete kept all the aunts and cousins away, with the exception of the two who were riding with Jill.

Clayton brought us out some tea presently, and we found plenty of topics for conversation.

All at once I stopped in the middle of a conversation.

‘Mr. Tudor, have my eyes deceived me, or was that Leah?’

‘Who?—­what Leah?  I do not know whom you mean!’ he returned, rather stupidly, staring in another direction.  There was a cavalcade coming up the road,—­a tall slim girl, on a chestnut mare, riding on in front with a young man, another girl and an elderly man with a gray moustache following them, a groom bringing up the rear.

Of course it was Jill, smiling and waving towards the balcony; she could not see Mr. Tudor under the awning, but she had caught sight of my silk dress.  Jill looked very well on horseback:  people always turned round to watch her.  She had a good seat, and rode gracefully; the dark habit suited her; she braided her unmanageable locks into an invisible net that kept them tidy.