“Well, at any rate, as I have promised the little singer, I can go up to tea just this once, and have done with it,” he decided—­“I shall then be exonerated from ’rudeness’—­and I can explain to Miss Vancourt—­quite kindly and courteously of course—­that I am not a visiting man,—­that my habits are rather those of a recluse, and then—­for the future—­she will understand.”

Cicely Bourne, meanwhile, on her way back to the Manor through the fields, paused many times to gather cowslips, which were blooming by thousands in the grass at her feet, and as she recklessly pulled up dozens of the pale-green stems, weighted with their nodding golden honey-bells, she thought a good deal about John Walden.

“Maryllia never told me he was handsome,”—­she mused; “But he is!  I wonder why she didn’t mention it?  So odd of her,—­because really there are very few good-looking men anywhere, and one in the shape of a parson is a positive rarity and ought to go on exhibition!  He’s clever too—­and—­obstinate?  Yes, I should say he was obstinate!  But he has kind eyes.  And he isn’t married.  What a comfort that is!  Parsons are uninteresting enough in themselves as a rule, but their wives are the last possibility in the way of dullness.  Oh, that honeysuckle!” And she sprang over the grass to the corner of a hedge where a long trail of the exquisitely-scented flower hung temptingly, as it seemed within reach, but when she approached it, she found it just too high above her to be plucked from the bough where its tendrils twined.  Looking up at it, she carolled softly: 

    “O Fortune capricieuse! 
     Comme tu es cruelle! 
     Pourquoi moques-tu ton esclave
     Qui sert un destin immortel!”

Here a sudden rustle in the leaves on the other side of the hedge startled her, and a curious-looking human head adorned profusely with somewhat disordered locks of red hair perked up enquiringly.  Cicely jumped back with an exclamation.

“Saint Moses!  What is it?”

“It is me!  Merely me!” and Sir Morton Pippitt’s quondam guest, Mr. Julian Adderley, rose to his full lanky height, and turned his flaccid face of more or less comic melancholy upon her—­“Pray do not be alarmed!  I have been reposing under the trees,—­and I was, or so I imagine, in a brief slumber, when some dulcet warblings as of a nightingale awoke me”—­here, stooping to the ground for his hat, he secured it, and waved it expressively—­“and I have, I fear, created some dismay in the mind of the interesting young person who, if I mistake not, is a friend of Miss Vancourt?”

Cicely surveyed him with considerable amusement.

“Never mind who I am!” she said, coolly—­“Tell me who you are!  My faith!—­you are as rough all over as a bear!  What have you been doing to yourself?  Your clothes are covered with leaves!”