for you to step into it, and you turn your back upon it with contempt!  What do you imagine you can do with yourself down here all alone?  There are no people of your own class residing nearer to you than three or four miles distant—­the village is composed of vulgar rustics—­the rural town is inhabited only by tradespeople, and though one of your near neighbours is Sir Morton Pippitt, one would hardly call him a real gentleman—­so there’s really nobody at all for you to associate with.  Now is there?”

Maryllia glanced up, her eyes sparkling.

“You forget the parson!” she said.

“Oh, the parson!” And Mrs. Courtenay tittered.  “Well, you’re the last woman in the world to associate with a parson!  You’re not a bit religious!”

“No,” said Maryllia—­“I’m afraid I’m not!”

“And you couldn’t do district visiting and soup kitchens and mothers’ meetings”—­put in Mrs. Courtenay—­“It would be too sordid and dull for words.  In fact, you wil simply die of ennui down here when the summer is over.  Now, if you married Roxmouth—–­”

“There would be a gall-moon, instead of a honey one,” said Maryllia, calmly,—­“But there won’t be either.  I must finish my letters!  Do you mind leaving me to myself?”

Mrs. Courtenay tossed her head, bit her lip, and rustled out of the room in a huff.  She reported her ill-success with ‘Maryllia Van’ to her husband, who, in his turn, reported it to Lord Roxmouth, who straightway conveyed these and all other items of the progress or retrogression of his wooing to Mrs. Fred Vancourt.  That lady, however, felt so perfectly confident that Roxmouth would,—­with the romantic surroundings of the Manor, and the exceptional opportunities afforded by long afternoons and moonlit evenings,—­ succeed where he had hitherto failed, that she almost selected Maryllia’s bridal gown, and went so far as to study the most elaborate designs for wedding-cakes of a millionaire description.

“For,”—­said she, with comfortable self-assurance—­“St. Rest, as I remember it, is just the dullest place I ever heard of, except heaven!  There are no men in it except dreadful hunting, drinking provincial creatures who ride or play golf all day, and go to sleep after dinner.  That kind of thing will never suit Maryllia.  She will contrast Roxmouth with the rural boors, and as a mere matter of good taste, she will acknowledge his superiority.  And she will do as I wish in the long run,—­she will be Duchess of Ormistoune.”

XXII

The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer.  He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,—­nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living.  All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,—­his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked