On the evening of the day when she received that early morning call, as soon as dusk had fallen, wrapped in a long thin cloak, with black lace over her dark hair, Audrey Noel herself fluttered out into the lanes, as if to join the grave winged hunters of the invisible night.  Those far, continual sounds, not stilled in the country till long after the sun dies, had but just ceased from haunting the air, where the late May-scent clung as close as fragrance clings to a woman’s robe.  There was just the barking of a dog, the boom of migrating chafers, the song of the stream, and of the owls, to proclaim the beating in the heart of this sweet Night.  Nor was there any light by which Night’s face could be seen; it was hidden, anonymous; so that when a lamp in a cottage threw a blink over the opposite bank, it was as if some wandering painter had wrought a picture of stones and leaves on the black air, framed it in purple, and left it hanging.  Yet, if it could only have been come at, the Night was as full of emotion as this woman who wandered, shrinking away against the banks if anyone passed, stopping to cool her hot face with the dew on the ferns, walking swiftly to console her warm heart.  Anonymous Night seeking for a symbol could have found none better than this errant figure, to express its hidden longings, the fluttering, unseen rushes of its dark wings, and all its secret passion of revolt against its own anonymity....

At Monkland Court, save for little Ann, the morning passed but dumbly, everyone feeling that something must be done, and no one knowing what.  At lunch, the only allusion to the situation had been Harbinger’s inquiry: 

“When does Miltoun return?”

He had wired, it seemed, to say that he was motoring down that night.

“The sooner the better,” Sir William murmured:  “we’ve still a fortnight.”

But all had felt from the tone in which he spoke these words, how serious was the position in the eyes of that experienced campaigner.

What with the collapse of the war scare, and this canard about Mrs. Noel, there was indeed cause for alarm.

The afternoon post brought a letter from Lord Valleys marked Express.

Lady Valleys opened it with a slight grimace, which deepened as she read.  Her handsome, florid face wore an expression of sadness seldom seen there.  There was, in fact, more than a touch of dignity in her reception of the unpalatable news.

“Eustace declares his intention of marrying this Mrs. Noel”—­so ran her husband’s letter—­“I know, unfortunately, of no way in which I can prevent him.  If you can discover legitimate means of dissuasion, it would be well to use them.  My dear, it’s the very devil.”