From the legendary sword of that Welsh chieftain who by an act of high, rewarded treachery had passed into the favour of the conquering William, and received, with the widow of a Norman, many lands in Devonshire, to the Cup purchased for Geoffrey Caradoc; present Earl of Valleys, by subscription of his Devonshire tenants on the occasion of his marriage with the Lady Gertrude Semmering—­no insignia were absent, save the family portraits in the gallery of Valleys House in London.  There was even an ancient duplicate of that yellow tattered scroll royally, reconfirming lands and title to John, the most distinguished of all the Caradocs, who had unfortunately neglected to be born in wedlock, by one of those humorous omissions to be found in the genealogies of most old families.  Yes, it was there, almost cynically hung in a corner; for this incident, though no doubt a burning question in the fifteenth century, was now but staple for an ironical little tale, in view of the fact that descendants of John’s ‘own’ brother Edmund were undoubtedly to be found among the cottagers of a parish not far distant.

Light, glancing from the suits of armour to the tiger skins beneath them, brought from India but a year ago by Bertie Caradoc, the younger son, seemed recording, how those, who had once been foremost by virtue of that simple law of Nature which crowns the adventuring and strong, now being almost washed aside out of the main stream of national life, were compelled to devise adventure, lest they should lose belief in their own strength.

The unsparing light of that first half-hour of summer morning recorded many other changes, wandering from austere tapestries to the velvety carpets, and dragging from the contrast sure proof of a common sense which denied to the present Earl and Countess the asceticisms of the past.  And then it seemed to lose interest in this critical journey, as though longing to clothe all in witchery.  For the sun had risen, and through the Eastern windows came pouring its level and mysterious joy.  And with it, passing in at an open lattice, came a wild bee to settle among the flowers on the table athwart the Eastern end, used when there was only a small party in the house.  The hours fled on silent, till the sun was high, and the first visitors came—­three maids, rosy, not silent, bringing brushes.  They passed, and were followed by two footmen—­scouts of the breakfast brigade, who stood for a moment professionally doing nothing, then soberly commenced to set the table.  Then came a little girl of six, to see if there were anything exciting—­little Ann Shropton, child of Sir William Shropton by his marriage with Lady Agatha, and eldest daughter of the house, the only one of the four young Caradocs as yet wedded.  She came on tiptoe, thinking to surprise whatever was there.  She had a broad little face, and wide frank hazel eyes over a little nose that came out straight and sudden.  Encircled by a loose belt placed far below the waist of her holland frock, as if to symbolize freedom, she seemed to think everything in life good fun.  And soon she found the exciting thing.