“He had cause to be,”—­said Walden, beginning to recover his equanimity and ease as the conversation turned into a channel which was his natural element—­“It is one of the finest collections in England.  The manuscripts alone are worth a fortune.”  Here he moved to the table where Adderley stood turning over a wondrously painted ’Book of Hours’—­“That is perfect twelfth-century work”—­he said—­ “There is a picture in it which ought to please Miss Cicely,” and he turned the pages over tenderly—­“Here it is,—­the loveliest of Saint Cecilias, in the act of singing!”

Cicely smiled with pleasure, and hung over the beautifully illuminated figure, surrounded with angels in clouds of golden glory.

“There’s one thing about Heaven which everybody seems agreed upon,"- -she said—­“It’s a place where we’re all expected to sing!”

“Not a doubt of it!” agreed Walden—­“You will be quite in your element!”

“The idea of Heaven is remote—­so very remote!” said Adderley—­“But if such a place existed, and I were bound to essay a vocal effort there, I should transform it at once to Hell!  The angels would never forgive me!”

They laughed.

“Let us go into the garden”—­said Maryllia—­“It is quite lovely just now,—­there are such cool deep shadows on the lawn.”

Cicely at once ran out, beckoning Adderley to follow.  Maryllia tied on her hat with its pink strings and its bunch of pink hyacinths tumbling against her small shell-like ear, and looked up from under its brim with an entrancing smile.

“Will you come, Mr. Walden?”

John murmured something politely inarticulate in assent.  He was, as has already been stated, apt to be rather at a loss in the company of women, unless they were well-seasoned matrons and grandames, with whom he could converse on the most ordinary and commonplace topics, such as the curing of hams, the schooling of children, or the best remedies for rheumatism.  A feminine creature who appeared to exist merely to fascinate the eye and attract the senses, moved him to a kind of mental confusion, which affected himself chiefly, as no one, save the most intimate of his friends, would ever have noticed it, or guessed that he was at any sort of pains to seem at ease.  Just now, as he took his soft shovel-hat, and followed his fair hostess out on the lawn, his mind was more or less in a state of chaos, and the thoughts that kept coming and going were as difficult to put into consecutive order as a Chinese puzzle.  One uncomfortable memory however sat prominently in a corner of his brain like the mocking phantasm of a mischievous Puck, pointing its jeering finger and reminding him of the fact, not to be denied, that but a short while ago, he had made up his mind to dislike, ay, even to detest, that mysterious composition of white and rose, blue eyes and chestnut-gold hair, called Maryllia Vancourt,—­that he had resolved she would be an altogether objectionable