I may have the summons from Themison to-morrow, Victor thought.  The success of the day, was a wine that rocked the soberest of thoughts.  For, strange to confess, ever since the fall on London Bridge, his heart, influenced in some degree by Nataly’s depression perhaps, had been shadowed by doubts of his infallible instinct for success.  Here, at a stroke, and before entering the house, he had the whole neighbourhood about him:  he could feel that he and Nataly stood in the minds of the worthy people variously with the brightness if not with the warmth distinguishable in the bosom of Beaves Urmsing—­the idea of whom gave Lakelands an immediate hearth-glow.

Armandine was thirteen minutes, by his watch, behind the time she had named.  Small blame to her.  He excused her to Lady Carmine, Lady Swanage, Lady Blachington, Mrs. Fanning, Sir Abraham Quatley, Mr. Danny (of Bacon fame) and the rest of the group surrounding Nataly on the mound leftward of the white terraces descending to the lake; where she stood beating her foot fretfully at the word brought by Nesta, that Dartrey Fenellan had departed.  It was her sunshine departed.  But she went through her task of conversing amiably.  Colney, for a wonder, consented to be useful in assisting Fenellan to relate stories of French Cooks; which were, like the Royal Hanoverian oyster, of an age for offering acceptable flavour to English hearers.  Nesta drew her mother’s attention to Priscilla Graves and Skepsey; the latter bending head and assenting.  Nataly spoke of the charm of Priscilla’s voice that day, in her duet with the Rev. Septimus.  Mr. Pempton looked; he saw that Priscilla was proselytizing.  She was perfection to him but for one blotting thing.  With grief on his eyelids, he said to Nataly or to himself:  ‘Meat!’

‘Dear friend, don’t ride your hobby over us,’ she replied.

‘But it’s with that object they mount it,’ said Victor.

The greater ladies of the assembly were quite ready to accuse the sections, down to the individuals, of the social English (reserving our elect) of an itch to be tyrants.

Colney was apologizing for them, with his lash:  ’It’s merely the sensible effect of a want of polish of the surface when they rub together.’

And he heard Carling exclaim to Victor:  ‘How comes the fellow here!’

Skepsey had rushed across an open space to intercept a leisurely progressive man, whose hat was of the shape Victor knew; and the man wore the known black gaiters.  In appearance, he had the likeness of a fallen parson.

Carling and Victor crossed looks that were questions carrying their answers.

Nataly’s eyes followed Victor’s.  ‘Who is the man?’ she said; and she got no reply beyond a perky sparkle in his gaze.

Others were noticing the man, who was trying to pass by Skepsey, now on his right side, now on his left.

‘There’ll be no stopping him,’ Carling said, and he slipped to the rear.’