He walked up to it now slowly, studying it critically as the light fell on its rich colouring.  The painted lady had a wonderfully attractive face,—­the face of a child, piquante, smiling and provocative,—­her eyes were witching blue, with a moonlight halo of grey between the black pupil and the azure iris,—­her mouth, a trifle large, but pouting in the centre and curved in the ’Cupid’s bow’ line, suggested sweetness and passion, and her hair,—­but surely her hair was indescribable!  The painter of Charles the Second’s time had apparently found it difficult to deal with,—­for there was a warm brown wave there, a tiny reddish ripple behind the small ear, and a flash of golden curls over the white brow, suggestive of all the tints of spring and autumn sunshine.  Habited in a riding dress of velvet the colour of a purple pansy, Mary Elia Adelgisa held her skirt, white gauntleted gloves, and riding whip daintily in one hand,—­her hat, a three-cornered piece of coquetry, lay ready for wear, on a garden-seat hard by,—­a blush rosebud was fastened carelessly in her close-fitting bodice, which was turned back with embroidered gold revers, and over her head, great forest trees, heavy with foliage, met in an arch of green.  John Walden stood for a quiet three minutes, studying the picture intently and also the superscription:  “Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, Born May 1st, 1651:  Wedded her cousin, Geoffrey de Vaignecourt, June 5th, 1671:  Died May 30th, 1681.”

“Not a very long life!” he mused:  “All the Vaignecourts, or Vancourts, have died somewhat early.”

He let his eyes rest again on the portrait lingeringly.

“Mary Elia!  I wonder if her descendant, ‘Maryllia,’ is anything like her?”

Slowly turning, he went out of the picture gallery, across the hall and into the garden, where the faithful Nebbie was waiting for him, amid a company of pigeons who were busy picking up what they fancied from the gravelled path, and who were utterly unembarrassed by the constant waggings of the terrier’s rough tail.  And he walked somewhat abstractedly through the old paved court, past the unsympathetic sun-dial, and out through the great gates, which were guarded on either side by stone griffins, gripping in their paws worn shields decorated with defaced tracings of the old Vaignecourt emblems.  Clematis clasped these fabulous beasts in a dainty embrace, winding little tendrils of delicate green over their curved claws, and festooning their savage-looking heads with large star-like flowers of white and pale mauve, and against one of the weather-beaten shields an early flowering red rose leaned its perfumed head in blushing crimson confidence.  Halting a moment in his onward pace, Walden paused, and looked back at the scene regretfully.

“Dear old place!” he said half aloud; “Many and many a happy hour have I passed in it, loving it, reverencing it, honouring its every stone,—­as all such relics of a chivalrous and gracious past deserve to be loved, reverenced and honoured.  But I fear,—­yes!—­I fear I shall never again see it quite as I have seen it for the past ten years,—­or as I see it now!  New days, new ways!  And I am not progressive.  To me the old days and old ways are best!”