Had one of the servants—­sitting up later than usual after the party, and not aware that Mr. Linley had gone into the garden—­noticed the door, and carefully fastened the bolts on the inner side?  That was exactly what had happened.

There was nothing for it but to submit to circumstances.  Linley led the way down the steps again.  “We are shut out,” he said.

Sydney listened in silent dismay.  He seemed to be merely amused; he treated their common misfortune as lightly as if it had been a joke.

“There’s nothing so very terrible in our situation,” he reminded her.  “The servants’ offices will be opened between six and seven o’clock; the weather is perfect; and the summer-house in the French Garden has one easy-chair in it, to my certain knowledge, in which you may rest and sleep.  I’m sure you must be tired—­let me take you there.”

She drew back, and looked up at the house.

“Can’t we make them hear us?” she asked.

“Quite impossible.  Besides—­” He was about to remind her of the evil construction which might be placed on their appearance together, returning from the garden at an advanced hour of the night; but her innocence pleaded with him to be silent.  He only said, “You forget that we all sleep at the top of our old castle.  There is no knocker to the door, and no bell that rings upstairs.  Come to the summer-house.  In an hour or two more we shall see the sun rise.”

She took his arm in silence.  They reached the French Garden without another word having passed between them.

The summer-house had been designed, in harmony with the French taste of the last century, from a classical model.  It was a rough copy in wood of The Temple of Vesta at Rome.  Opening the door for his companion, Linley paused before he followed her in.  A girl brought up by a careful mother would have understood and appreciated his hesitation; she would have concealed any feeling of embarrassment that might have troubled her at the moment, and would have asked him to come back and let her know when the rising of the sun began.  Neglected by her mother, worse than neglected by her aunt, Sydney’s fearless ignorance put a question which would have lowered the poor girl cruelly in the estimation of a stranger.  “Are you going to leave me here by myself?” she asked.  “Why don’t you come in?”

Linley thought of his visit to the school, and remembered the detestable mistress.  He excused Sydney; he felt for her.  She held the door open for him.  Sure of himself, he entered the summer-house.

As a mark of respect on her part, she offered the armchair to him:  it was the one comfortable seat in the neglected place.  He insisted that she should take it; and, searching the summer-house, found a wooden stool for himself.  The small circular room received but little of the dim outer light—­they were near each other—­they were silent.  Sydney burst suddenly into a nervous little laugh.