Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, Walden took the thick, creamy-white object she offered and found himself considering it with a curious disfavour.  It was a strictly ‘fashionable’ make of envelope, and was addressed in a particularly bold and assertive hand-writing to

Mrs. Spruce, Housekeeper, Abbot’s Manor, St. Rest.

Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows: 

“Miss Vancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will arrive at Abbot’s Manor on the 7th inst., to remain there in residence.  Mrs. Spruce is requested to engage the necessary household servants, as Miss Vancourt will bring none except the groom in charge of her two hunters.”

Over and over again Walden read this curt and commonplace note, with a sense of irritation which he knew was perfectly absurd, but which, nevertheless, defied all reason.  The paper on which it was written was thick and satiny,—­and there was a faint artificial odour of violets about it which annoyed him.  He hated scented notepaper.  Deliberately he replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a moment as he again studied the superscription, he addressed the expectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was waiting for him to speak.

“Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don’t think you need any advice from me on such a simple matter as this,” he said slowly.  “Your duty is quite plain.  You must obey orders.  Miss Vancourt is, I suppose, the mistress of Abbot’s Manor?”

“She is, sir,—­of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia—­”

“Miss—­what?” interrupted Walden, with a sudden lightening of his dark blue eyes.

“Maryllia, sir.  It is a kind of family name, pronounced ’Ma-rill-yer,’” explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable pomposity; “Many folks never gets it right—­it wants knowledge and practice.  But if you remember the pictures in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may call to mind one of the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a vi’let velvet; ridin’ dress and holdin’ a huntin’ crop, and the name underneath is ‘Mary Ella Adelgisa de Vaignecourt’ and it was after her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, rollin’ the two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to make a name what none of his forebears had ever had.  He was a queer man, the old Squire—­he wouldn’t a-cared whether the name was Christian or heathen.”

“I suppose not.” said the Reverend John carelessly, rising and pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture; whereupon Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood ‘at attention,’ her loosened bonnet-strings flying and her large black calico pocket well in evidence to the front of her skirt.

“Here’s your letter, Mrs. Spruce;” and as she took it from his hand with a curtsey he continued:  “There is evidently nothing for it but to get the house in order by the day appointed and do your best to please the lady.  I can quite understand that you feel a little worried at having to prepare everything so quickly and unexpectedly,—­but after all, you must have often thought that Miss Vancourt’s return to her old home was likely to happen at any time.”