Meanwhile Austin meditated on the little episode on his side, as he made his way along the road.  “I daresay dear old auntie was a bit put out,” he thought, “but she brought it all upon herself.  She doesn’t see that everybody must live his own life, that it’s a duty one owes to oneself to realise one’s own individuality.  Now it’s bad for me to associate with people I detest—­bad for my soul’s development; just as bad as it is for anyone’s body to eat food that doesn’t agree with him.  Those MacTavishes poison my soul just as arsenic poisons the body, and I won’t have my soul poisoned if I can help it.  It’s very sad to see how blind she is to the art and philosophy of life.  But she’ll have to learn it, and the sooner she begins the better.”

Here he left the high road, and turned into a long, narrow lane enclosed between high banks, which led into a pleasant meadow by the river side.  This shortened the way considerably, and when he reached the stile at the further end of the meadow he found himself only some ten minutes’ walk from the park gates.  Then a subdued excitement fell upon him.  He was going to see the beautiful picture-gallery and the great collection of engravings, and the gardens with conservatories full of lovely orchids.  He was going to hold delightful converse with the cultured and agreeable man to whom all these things belonged.  And—­well, he might possibly even see a ghost!  But now, in the genial daylight, with the prospect of luncheon immediately before him, the idea of ghosts seemed rather to retire into the background.  Ghosts did not appear so attractive as they had done yesterday afternoon, when he had talked about them with Lubin.  However—­here he was.

Mr St Aubyn, tall and middle-aged, with a refined face set in a short, pointed beard, received him with exquisite cordiality.  How seldom does a man realise the positive idolatry he can inspire by treating a well-bred youth on equal terms, instead of assuming airs of patronage and condescension!  The boy accepts such an attitude as natural, perhaps, but he resents it nevertheless, and never gives the man his confidence.  The perfect manners of St Aubyn won Austin’s heart at once, and he responded with a modest ardour that touched and gratified his host.  The Court, too, exceeded his expectations.  It was a grand old mansion dating from the reign of Elizabeth, with mullioned casements, and carved doorways, and cool, dim rooms oak-panelled, and broad fireplaces; and around it lay a shining garden enclosed by old monastic walls of red brick, with shaped beds of carnations glowing redly in the sunlight, and, beyond the straight lines of lawn, a wilderness of nut-trees, with a pool of yellow water-lilies, where wild hyacinths and pale jonquils rioted when it was spring.  On one side of the garden, at right angles to the house, the wall shelved into a great grass terrace, and here stood a sort of wing, flanked by two glorious old towers, crumbling and ivy-draped, forming entrances to a vast room, tapestried, which had been a banqueting hall in the picturesque Tudor days.  Meanwhile, Austin was ushered by his host into the library—­a moderate-sized apartment, lined with countless books and adorned with etchings of great choiceness; whence, after a few minutes’ chat on indifferent subjects, they adjourned to the dining-room, where a luncheon, equally choice and good, awaited them.