She had slipped out of the Priory early that morning that she might enjoy alone, unattended and unciceroned, the aspect of that vast estate which might be hers for the mere accepting.  Perhaps there was some instinct of delicacy in her avoiding Lord Algernon that morning; not wishing, as she herself might have frankly put it, “to take stock” of his inheritance in his presence.  As she passed into the garden through the low postern door, she turned to look along the stretching facade of the main building, with the high stained windows of its banqueting-hall and the state chamber where a king had slept.  Even in that crisp October air, and with the green of its ivied battlements against the gold of the distant wood, it seemed to lie in the languid repose of an eternal summer.  She hurried on down the other terrace into the Italian garden, a quaint survival of past grandeur, passed the great orangery and numerous conservatories, making a crystal hamlet in themselves—­seeing everywhere the same luxury.  But it was a luxury that she fancied was redeemed from the vulgarity of ostentation by the long custom of years and generations, so unlike the millionaire palaces of her own land; and, in her enthusiasm, she even fancied it was further sanctified by the grim monastic founders who had once been content with bread and pulse in the crumbling and dismantled refectory.  In the plenitude of her feelings she felt a slight recognition of some beneficent being who had rolled this golden apple at her feet, and felt as if she really should like to “do good” in her sphere.

It so chanced that, passing through a small gate in the park, she saw walking, a little ahead of her, a young girl whom she at once recognized as a Miss Amelyn, one of the guests of the evening before.  Miss Desborough remembered that she played the accompaniment of one or two songs upon the piano, and had even executed a long solo during the general conversation, without attention from the others, and apparently with little irritation to herself, subsiding afterwards into an armchair, quite on the fringe of other people’s conversation.  She had been called “my dear” by one or two dowagers, and by her Christian name by the earl, and had a way of impalpably melting out of sight at times.  These trifles led Miss Desborough to conclude that she was some kind of dependent or poor relation.  Here was an opportunity to begin her work of “doing good.”  She quickened her pace and overtook Miss Amelyn.

“Let me walk with you,” she said graciously.

The young English girl smiled assent, but looked her surprise at seeing the cynosure of last night’s eyes unattended.

“Oh,” said Sadie, answering the mute query, “I didn’t want to be ’shown round’ by anybody, and I’m not going to bore you with asking to see sights either.  We’ll just walk together; wherever you’re going is good enough for me.”

“I’m going as far as the village,” said Miss Amelyn, looking down doubtfully at Sadie’s smart French shoes—­“if you care to walk so far.”