And John actually whistled a tune as he slipped back his chain with its new adornment attached, into his waistcoat pocket, and surveyed his garden surroundings with a placid smile.  His interview with Miss Vancourt had not been an unpleasant experience by any means.  He liked her better than when he had first seen her on the morning of their meeting under the boughs of the threatened ‘Five Sister’ beeches.  He could now, as he thought, gauge her character and temperament correctly, with all the wonderful perspicuity and not-to-be-contradicted logic of a man.  She was charming,—­and she knew her charm;—­she was graceful, and she was aware of her grace;—­she was bright and intelligent in the prettily ‘surface’ way of women,—­ she evidently possessed a kind heart, and she seemed thoughtful of other people’s feelings,—­she had a sweet voice and a delightfully musical laugh,—­and—­and—­that was about all.  It was not much, strictly speaking;—­yet he found himself considerably interested in weighing the pros and cons of her nature, and wondering how she had managed to retain, in the worldly and social surroundings to which she had been so long accustomed, the child-like impulsiveness of her manner, and the simple frankness of her speech.

“Of course it may be all put on,”—­he reflected, though with a touch of shamed compunction at the bare suggestion—­“One can never tell!  It seemed natural.  And it would hardly be worth her while to act a part for the benefit of an old fogey like myself.  I think she is genuine.  I hope so!  At any rate I will believe she is, till she proves herself otherwise.  Of course ‘the trend of modern thought’ has touched her.  The cruellest among the countless cruel deeds of latter-day theism is to murder the Christ in women.  For, as woman’s purity first brought the Divine Master into the world, so must woman’s purity still keep Him here with us,—­else we men are lost—­ lost through the sins, not only of our fathers, but chiefly of our mothers!”

That same evening Maryllia received a prompt reply to one of the telegrams which Walden had sent off for her in the morning.  It was brief and to the point, and only ran:—­’Coming.  Cicely’;—­a message which Mrs. Tapple had no difficulty in deciphering, and which she sent up to the Manor, post haste, as soon as it arrived.  The telegraph-boy who conveyed it, got sixpence for himself as a reward for the extra speed he had put on in running all the way from the village to the house, thereby outstripping the postman, who being rotund in figure was somewhat heavily labouring up in the same direction with the last delivery of letters for the day.  Miss Vancourt’s correspondents were generally very numerous,—­but on this occasion there was only one letter for her,—­one, neatly addressed, with a small finely engraved crest on the flap of the envelope.  Maryllia surveyed that envelope and crest with disfavour,—­she had seen too many of the same kind.  The smile that brightened her face when she read Cicely’s telegram, faded altogether into an expression of cold weariness as with a small silver paper-knife she slowly slit the closed edges of the unwelcome missive and glanced indifferently at its contents.  It ran as follows: