“Billy and I stayed there for the pheasant shoot last November, and I assure you we felt quite out of it, having no little adventures at night like the rest.  Lady Ada is the picture of washed-out respectability herself, and so—­to give her some reflected color, I suppose—­she asks always the most go-ahead, advanced section of her acquaintances.”

“Well, I shall be there this time,” said the Crow; “she invited me last week.”

This piece of news comforted Lady Anningford greatly.  She felt here would be some one to help matters if he could.

“Morella will be perfectly furious when she gets there and finds she was not the reason of Hector’s empressement for the invitation.  And in her stolid way she can be just as spiteful as Lady Harrowfield.”

“Yes, I know.”

Then they were both silent for a while—­Anne’s thoughts busy with the mournful idea of the end of the House of Bracondale should Hector never marry, and the Crow’s of her in sympathy, his eyes watching her face.

At last she spoke.

“I believe it would be best for Hector to go right away for a year or so,” she sighed.  “But, however it may be, I fear, alas! it can only end in tears.”

XXIII

Beechleigh was really a fine place, built by Vanbrugh in his best days.

Three tiers of fifteen tall windows looked to the north in a front and two short wings, while colonnades led down to splendid wrought-iron gates, and blocks of buildings constructed in the same stately style.  Fifteen more windows faced the south; and the centre one of the first floor led, with sweeping steps, to a terrace, while seven casements adorned each of the eastern and western sides.

On the southern side the view, for that rather flat country, was superb.

It gave, from a considerable elevation—­through a wide opening of giant oaks and elms—­a peep of the lake a mile below, and on in a long avenue of turf to a vista of smiling country.

On the splendid terrace peacocks spread their tails, and vases of carved stone broke at intervals the gray old balustrade.

Inside the house was equally nobly planned:  all the rooms of great height and perfect proportion, and filled with pictures and tapestries and bronzes and antiques of immense value.

It had come to these spendthrift Irish Fitzgeralds through their grandmother, the last of an old ducal race.  And two generations of Hibernian influence had curtailed the fine fortune which went with it, until Sir Patrick often felt it no easy matter to make both ends meet in the luxurious and gilded fashion which was necessary to himself and his friends.

If he and Lady Ada pinched and scraped when alone, keeping few servants on board wages, the parties, at all events, were done with all their wonted regal splendor.

“I shall stay with you, Patrick, as long as you can afford this cook,” Lady Harrowfield said once to him; “but when you begin to economize, don’t trouble to ask me.  I hate poor people, when it shows.”