When old Purling bought the ——­shire estates there was an ancient manor-house on the property, a picturesque but inconvenient residence, which did not at all come up to his ideas of a country gentleman’s place.  It was therefore incontinently pulled down, and one of the most fashionable architects of the day, having carte blanche to build, erected a Palladian pile of wide frontage and imposing dimensions on the most prominent site he could find.  It ought to have haunted its author like a crime; but he was spared, and the punishment fell upon the innocent who dwelt around.  There was no escape from Purlington, so long as you were within a dozen miles of it.  Wherever you went and wherever you looked, down from points of vantage or up from quiet dells, this great white caravanserai, with its glittering plate-glass panes and staring stucco, forced itself upon you with the unblushing effrontery of a brazen beauty, with painted face and bedizened in flaunting attire.  But the heiress thought it was a very splendid place, with its pineries, conservatories, its acres of glass, and its army of retainers in liveries of rainbow hues.  Mrs. Purling was a little afraid of her servants, albeit strong-minded in other respects; but it was natural she should submit to a coachman who had once worn the royal livery, or quail before a butler who had lived with a duke.

The butler met Harold on his return, extending to him a gracious patronising welcome, as if he were doing the honours of his own house.

“Misterarold,” he cried, making one word of the name and title, “this is a pleasant surprise.  You wus not expected, sir; not in the least.”

“My mother is at home?”

“No, sir; out.  In the kerridge.  She drove Homersham way.”

“See after my things.  Here are my keys.”  And Harold passed on to the little morning-room which Mrs. Purling called her own.  Having the choice of half-a-dozen chambers, each as big as Exeter Hall, she preferred to occupy habitually the smallest den in the house.  To his surprise he found the room not untenanted.  A young lady was at the book-case, and she turned seemingly in trepidation on hearing the door open.

“Miss Fanshawe,” thought Harold, as he advanced with eyes that were unmistakably critical.

“I must introduce myself,” he said.  “I am Harold.”

“The last of the Saxon kings?”

“No; the first of the Purling princes.  I know you quite well.  Has my mother never mentioned me?”

“I only arrived yesterday,” the young lady replied, rather evading the question.

“My mother must be delighted.  She told me she was looking forward eagerly to your promised visit.”

“She really spoke of me?”

“In her letters; again and again.”

“I hardly thought—­”

“That you had taken her by storm?  You have; and I was surprised, for she is not easily won.”

Not a civil speech, which this girl only resented by placing a pair of old-fashioned double glasses across her small nose, and looking at him with a gravity that was quite comical.