“My destroying days are over,” he declared.

Honora put on a linen hat and they took the gravelled path to the stables, where the horses, one by one, were brought out into the courtyard for their inspection.  In anticipation of this hour there was a blood bay for Honora, which Chiltern had bought in New York.  She gave a little cry of delight when she saw the horse shining in the sunlight, his nostrils in the air, his brown eyes clear, his tapering neck patterned with veins.  And then there was the dairy, with the fawn-coloured cows and calves; and the hillside pastures that ran down to the river, and the farm lands where the stubbled grain was yellowing.  They came back by the path that wound through the trees and shrubbery bordering the lake to the walled garden, ablaze in the mellow sunlight with reds and purples, salvias and zinnias, dahlias, gladioli, and asters.

Here he left her for a while, sitting dreamily on the stone bench.  Mrs. Hugh Chiltern, of Grenoble!  Over and over she repeated that name to herself, and it refused somehow to merge with her identity.  Yet was she mistress of this fair domain; of that house which had sheltered them race for a century, and the lines of which her eye caressed with a loving reverence; and the Chiltern pearls even then lay hidden around her throat.

Her thoughts went back, at this, to the gentle lady to whom they had belonged, and whose look began again to haunt her.  Honora’s superstition startled her.  What did it mean, that look?  She tried to recall where she had seen it before, and suddenly remembered that the eyes of the old butler had held something not unlike it.  Compassionate—­this was the only word that would describe it.  No, it had not proclaimed her an intruder, though it may have been ready to do so the moment before her appearance; for there was a note of surprise in it—­surprise and compassion.

This was the lady in whose footsteps she was to walk, whose charities and household cares she was to assume!  Tradition, order, observance, responsibility, authority it was difficult to imagine these as a logical part of the natural sequence of her life.  She would begin to-day, if God would only grant her these things she had once contemned, and that seemed now so precious.  Her life—­her real life would begin to-day.  Why not?  How hard she would strive to be worthy of this incomparable gift!  It was hers, hers!  She listened, but the only answer was the humming of the bees in the still September morning.

Chiltern’s voice aroused her.  He was standing in the breakfast room talking to the old butler.

“You’re sure there were no other letters, Starling, besides these bills?”

Honora became tense.

“No, sir,” she heard the butler say, and she seemed to detect in his deferential voice the note of anxiety suppressed in the other’s.  “I’m most particular about letters, sir, as one who lived so many years with your father would be.  All that came were put in your study, Mr. Hugh.”