Milo was the affectionate nickname—­a tribute to her charms—­borne by Miss Markham at St. Ursula’s.

‘How can I wish that anyone was here but you?’ asked Logan.  ’But, indeed, as to her being here, I should like to know in what capacity she was a guest.’

The Clytemnestra glance came into Miss Willoughby’s grey eyes for a moment, but she was not to be put out of humour.

’To be here as a kinswoman, and an historian, with a maid—­fancy me with a maid!—­and everything handsome about me, is sufficiently excellent for me, Mr. Logan; and if it were otherwise, do you disapprove of the proceedings of your own Society?  But there is Lord Scremerston calling to us, and a four-in-hand waiting at the door.  And I am to sit on the box-seat.  Oh, this is better than the dingy old Record Office all day.’

With these words Miss Willoughby tripped over the sod as lightly as the Fairy Queen, and Logan slowly followed.  No; he did not approve of the proceedings of his Society as exemplified by Miss Willoughby, and he was nearly guilty of falling asleep during the drive to Winderby Abbey.  Scremerston was not much more genial, for his father was driving and conversing very gaily with his fair kinswoman.

‘Talk about a distant cousin!’ thought Logan, who in fact felt ill-treated.  However deep in love a man may be, he does not like to see a fair lady conspicuously much more interested in other members of his sex than in himself.

The Abbey was a beautiful ruin, and Father Riccoboni did not conceal from Lady Mary the melancholy emotions with which it inspired him.

‘When shall our prayers be heard?’ he murmured.  ’When shall England return to her Mother’s bosom?’

Lady Mary said nothing, but privately trusted that the winds would disperse the orisons of which the Father spoke.  Perhaps nuns had been bricked up in these innocent-looking mossy walls, thought Lady Mary, whose ideas on this matter were derived from a scene in the poem of Marmion.  And deep in Lady Mary’s heart was a half-formed wish that, if there was to be any bricking up, Miss Willoughby might be the interesting victim.  Unlike her brother the Earl, she was all for the Bangs alliance.

Scremerston took the reins on the homeward way, the Earl being rather fatigued; and, after dinner, two white robes flitted ghost-like on the lawn, and the light which burned red beside one of them was the cigar-tip of Scremerston.  The Earl had fallen asleep in the drawing-room, and Logan took a lonely stroll, much regretting that he had come to a house where he felt decidedly ‘out of it.’  He wandered down to the river, and stood watching.  He was beside the dark-brown water in the latest twilight, beside a long pool with a boat moored on the near bank.  He sat down in the boat pensively, and then—­what was that?  It was the sound of a heavy trout rising. ‘Plop, plop!’ They were feeding all round him.