She rose and dressed at once, eager for the open air and sunshine.  She was out upon the lawn before any one else but the Borzoi, which rose from beneath a tree and came with stately walk toward her.  The air was exquisite, the broad, beautiful stretch of view lay warm in the sun, the masses of flowers on the herbaceous borders showed leaves and flower-cups adorned with glittering drops of dew.  She walked across the spacious sweep of short-cropped sod, and gazed enraptured at the country spread out below.  She could have kissed the soft white sheep dotting the fields and lying in gentle, huddled groups under the trees.

“The darlings!” she said, in a little, effusive outburst.

She talked to the dog and fondled him.  He seemed to understand her mood, and pressed close against her gown when she stopped.  They walked together about the gardens, and presently picked up an exuberant retriever, which bounded and wriggled and at once settled into a steady trot beside them.  Emily adored the flowers as she walked by their beds, and at intervals stopped to bury her face in bunches of spicy things.  She was so happy that the joy in her hazel eyes was pathetic.

She was startled, as she turned into a rather narrow rose-walk, to see Lord Walderhurst coming toward her.  He looked exceedingly clean in his fresh light knickerbocker suit, which was rather becoming to him.  A gardener was walking behind, evidently gathering roses for him, which he put into a shallow basket.  Emily Fox-Seton cast about for a suitable remark to make, if he should chance to stop to speak to her.  She consoled herself with the thought that there were things she really wanted to say about the beauty of the gardens, and certain clumps of heavenly-blue campanulas, which seemed made a feature of in the herbaceous borders.  It was so much nicer not to be obliged to invent observations.  But his lordship did not stop to speak to her.  He was interested in his roses (which, she heard afterward, were to be sent to town to an invalid friend), and as she drew near, he turned aside to speak to the gardener.  As Emily was just passing him when he turned again, and as the passage was narrow, he found himself unexpectedly gazing into her face.

Being nearly the same height, they were so near each other that it was a little awkward.

“I beg pardon,” he said, stepping back a pace and lifting his straw hat.

But he did not say, “I beg pardon, Miss Fox-Seton,” and Emily knew that he had not recognised her again, and had not the remotest idea who she was or where she came from.

She passed him with her agreeable, friendly smile, and there returned to her mind Lady Maria’s remarks of the night before.

“To think that if he married poor pretty Lady Agatha she will be mistress of three places quite as beautiful as Mallowe, three lovely old houses, three sets of gardens, with thousands of flowers to bloom every year!  How nice it would be for her!  She is so lovely that it seems as if he must fall in love with her.  Then, if she was Marchioness of Walderhurst, she could do so much for her sisters.”