Still, in spite of all, that week was one of the happiest in my life.  The brothers were both men of enough ability and cultivation to be pleasant talkers, and Lucy could perform adequately the part of conversational accompanist, which, socially speaking, is all that is required of a woman.  The meals and evenings passed quickly and agreeably; the mornings I spent in unending gossips with Lucy, or in games with the children, two bright boys of five and six years old.  But the afternoons were the best part of the day.  George was a thorough squire in all his tastes and habits, and every afternoon his wife dutifully accompanied him round farms and coverts, inspecting new buildings, trudging along half-made roads, or marking unoffending trees for destruction.  Then Alan and I would ride by the hour together over moor and meadowland, often picking our way homewards down the glen-side long after the autumn evenings had closed in.  During these rides I had glimpses many a time into depths in Alan’s nature of which I doubt whether in the old days he had himself been aware.  To me certainly they were as a revelation.  A prevailing sadness, occasionally a painful tone of bitterness, characterized these more serious moods of his, but I do not think that, at the end of that week, I would, if I could, have changed the man, whom I was learning to revere and to pity, for the light-hearted playmate whom I felt was lost to me for ever.

II

The only feature of the family life which jarred on me was the attitude of the two brothers towards the children.  I did not notice this much at first, and at all times it was a thing to be felt rather than to be seen.  George himself never seemed quite at ease with them.  The boys were strong and well grown, healthy in mind and body; and one would have thought that the existence of two such representatives to carry on his name and inherit his fortune would have been the very crown of pride and happiness to their father.  But it was not so.  Lucy indeed was devoted to them, and in all practical matters no one could have been kinder to them than was George.  They were free of the whole house, and every indulgence that money could buy for them they had.  I never heard him give them a harsh word.  But there was something wrong.  A constraint in their presence, a relief in their absence, an evident dislike of discussing them and their affairs, a total want of that enjoyment of love and possession which in such a case one might have expected to find.  Alan’s state of mind was even more marked.  Never did I hear him willingly address his nephews, or in any way allude to their existence.  I should have said that he simply ignored it, but for the heavy gloom which always overspread his spirits in their company, and for the glances which he would now and again cast in their direction—­glances full of some hidden painful emotion, though of what nature it would have been hard to define.  Indeed, Alan’s attitude towards her children I soon found to be the only source of friction between Lucy and this otherwise much-loved member of her husband’s family.  I asked her one day why the boys never appeared at luncheon.