FIVE quiet weeks slipped by—weeks full of outward, as well as of inward, happiness at The Chase and at Freshley.

Katty Winslow had come back to Rosedean, and then, without even seeing Laura, had gone away again almost at once. She was still away when there took place early in December the gathering together, for the first time for many years, of a big shooting party at Knowlton Abbey.

Just before joining that pleasant party, Mrs. Pavely spent a week in London, and certain Pewsbury gossips, of whose very existence she was unaware, opined that she had gone up to town to buy clothes! In a little over a month, Godfrey Pavely would have been dead a year, and some of these same gossips thought it rather strange that Mrs. Pavely should be going to stay at the Abbey before her first year of widowhood was over. But the kinder of the busybodies reminded one another that Lord St. Amant had known the mistress of The Chase from childhood, and being, as he was, a very good-natured man, no doubt he had thought it would cheer up the poor lady to have a little change.

Yes, Laura, to Mrs. Tropenell's surprise, had gone up alone to London, and Oliver, after two days, followed her. But he had not waited to escort her back, as his mother expected him to do. He returned the day before Laura—in fact she was away a week, he only four days.

The gossips of Pewsbury had been right. Laura had gone up to town to get a few new clothes, but she was still wearing unrelieved black, if not exactly conventional widow's mourning, when she arrived at Knowlton Abbey.

Lord St. Amant's shooting party was a great success—a success from the point of view of the guests, and from that of the host. For the first time for many years, in fact for the first time since the death of Lady St. Amant, the house was quite full, for in addition to the neighbours whom the host specially wished to honour, there had come down certain more sophisticated folk from London. Among others asked had been Sir Angus Kinross; but Sir Angus, to his own and Lord St. Amant's regret, had had to decline. The two men had become intimate since last winter—each had a real respect, a cordial liking, for the other.

The housekeeper at the Abbey had been surprised to note his lordship's interest in every detail. He had himself seen, and at considerable length, the chef who had come down from London for the week; he had even glanced over the bedroom list, making certain suggestions as to where his various guests should sleep. Thus it was by his desire that Mrs. Tropenell had been given the largest bed-chamber in the house, one which had never been, in the present housekeeper's reign, occupied by a visitor. It had been, in the long, long ago, the room of his mother, the room in fact where his lordship himself had been born some seventy odd years ago. By his wish, also, there had been arranged for Mrs. Tropenell's occupation the old-fashioned sitting-room into which the bedroom opened.

Mr. Oliver Tropenell had been put nearly opposite Lord St. Amant's own sleeping apartment, in that portion of the house which was known as "his lordship's wing." And Mrs. Pavely had been given, in the same part of the house, but at the further end of the corridor, the room which had been always occupied, during her infrequent sojourns at the Abbey, by the late Lady St. Amant.

And now the long, though also the all too short, week-end, which had lasted from Thursday to Tuesday, was over, and all the guests had departed, with the exception of Lord St. Amant's three intimate friends—Mrs. Tropenell, that lady's son, and Mrs. Pavely. This smaller party was staying on for two more days, and then it would break up—Mrs. Tropenell and Mrs. Pavely returning in the morning to Freshley Manor and The Chase, while Mr. Tropenell stayed on to accompany his host to another big shoot in the neighbourhood.

Though all three had professed sincere regret at the departure of their fellow guests, each of them felt a certain sense of relief, and yes, of more than relief, of considerable satisfaction, when they found themselves alone together.

There is always plenty to talk about after the breakup of a country house party, and when at last the four of them found themselves together at dinner, they all did talk—even Laura, who was generally so silent, talked and laughed, and exchanged quick, rather shy jests with Oliver.

Laura and Oliver? Lord St. Amant had of course very soon discovered their innocent secret. He had taxed Mrs. Tropenell with the truth, and she had admitted it, while explaining that they desired their engagement, for obvious reasons, to remain secret for a while.

During these last few days their host had admired, with a touch of whimsical surprise, Laura's dignity, and Oliver's self-restraint. Of course they had managed to be a good deal together, aided by Lord St. Amant's unobtrusive efforts, and owing to the fact that Mrs. Tropenell's charming sitting-room upstairs was always at their disposal.

But no one in the cheerful, light-hearted company had come within miles of guessing the truth; and Oliver Tropenell had done his full share in helping Lord St. Amant in the entertainment of his guests. He had also made himself duly agreeable to the ladies—indeed, Oliver, in a sense, had been the success of the party, partly because the way of his life in Mexico enabled him to bring a larger, freer air into the discussions which had taken place after dinner and in the smoking-room, and also because of his vitality—a vitality which just now burned with a brighter glow....

Lord St. Amant and Oliver only stayed on at the dining-table a very few minutes after Mrs. Tropenell and Laura had gone off into the drawing-room.

Though now on very cordial terms, the two men never had very much to say to one another. Yet Lord St. Amant had always been fond of Oliver. Being the manner of man he was, he could not but feel attached to Letty Tropenell's child. Still, there had been a time, now many long years ago, just after the death of his wife, when he had been acutely jealous of Oliver—jealous, that is, of Mrs. Tropenell's absorption, love, and pride, in her son. She had made it so very clear that she desired no closer tie to her old friend—and this had shrewdly hurt his self-esteem. But he had been too much of a philosopher to bear rancune, and such a friendship as theirs soon became had, after all, its compensations.

When Oliver settled in Mexico the time had passed by for a renewal of the old relations, and for a while the tie which had lasted for so long, and survived so many secret vicissitudes, appeared to loosen....

But now, again, all that was changed. Lord St. Amant had given up his wanderings on the Continent, and he had come once more very near to Mrs. Tropenell, during this last year. He and Oliver were also better friends than they had ever been; this state of things dated from last winter, for, oddly enough, what had brought them in sympathy had been the death of Godfrey Pavely. They had been constantly together during the days which had followed the banker's mysterious disappearance, and they had worked in close union, each, in a sense, representing Laura, and having a dual authority from her to do what seemed best.

Still, to-night, excellent as were the terms on which each man felt with the other, neither had anything to say that could not be said better in the company of the ladies. And when in the drawing-room, which now looked so large and empty with only two, where last night there had been twelve, women gathered together about the fireplace, the four talked on, pleasantly, cheerfully, intimately, as they had done at dinner.

After a while Laura and Oliver slipped away into the smaller drawing-room, and Lord St. Amant and Mrs. Tropenell, hardly aware that the other two had left them, went on gossiping—harking back, as they now so often did, to the old stories, the old human tragedies and comedies, of the neighbourhood.

Soon after ten Laura and Oliver came back, walking side by side, and Oliver's mother looked up with a proud, fond glance.

They were a striking, well-matched couple—Laura looking more beautiful than ever to-night, perhaps because she seemed a thought more animated than usual.

"I've come to say good-night," she exclaimed. "I feel so sleepy! Oliver and I had such a glorious walk this afternoon."

She bent down and kissed Mrs. Tropenell. And then, unexpectedly, she turned to Lord St. Amant, and put up her face as if she expected him also to kiss her.

Amused and touched, he bent and brushed his old lips against her soft cheek: "My dear," he exclaimed, "this is very kind of you!"

And then Oliver stepped forward into the circle of light thrown by the big wood fire.

He said a little huskily, "My turn next, Laura——" And to the infinite surprise of his mother and of his host, Laura, with an impulsive, tender gesture, reached up towards him, and he, too, brushed her soft face with his lips.

Then he took her hand, and led her to the door. And Lord St. Amant, quoting ChampmÉlÉ, turned to his old love: "'Ah! Madame—quelle jolie chose qu'un baiser!'" he murmured, and ere the door had quite closed behind Oliver he, too, had put his arm with a caressing gesture round her shoulder, and drawn her to him, with the whispered words, "Letty—don't think me an old fool!" And then, "Oh, Letty! Do you remember the first time——" And though she made no answer, he knew she did remember, like himself only too well, the wild, winter afternoon, nearer forty than thirty years ago, when they two had been caught alone, far from home, in a great storm—the wild weather responding to their wild mood. They had taken shelter in a deserted, half-ruined barn, a survival of the days when England had still great granaries. And there, throwing everything aside—the insistent promptings of honour, and the less insistent promptings of prudence—St. Amant had kissed Letty....

He remembered, even now, the thrill of mingled rapture, shame, gratitude, triumph, and stinging self-rebuke, which had accompanied that first long clinging kiss.

The next day he had left the Abbey for the Continent, and when, at last, he had come back, he had himself again well in hand....

Only yesterday the shooters had gone by that old seventeenth-century barn, of which nothing now remained but thick low walls, and as he had tramped by the spot, so alone with his memories, if outwardly so companioned, there had swept over his heart, that heart which was still susceptible to every keen emotion, a feeling of agonised regret for what had—and what had not been.

"Ah, Letty," he said huskily, "you've been the best friend man ever had! Don't you think the time has come for two such old friends as you and I have been never to part? It isn't as if I had a great deal of time left."

An hour later Lord St. Amant was sitting up in bed, reading the fourth volume of a certain delightful edition of the Memoirs of the Duc de Saint Simon. He was feeling happier than he had felt for a very long time—stirred and touched too, as he had not thought to be again.

Complacently he reminded himself of the successful, the brilliantly successful, elderly marriages he had known in his time. 'Twas odd when one came to think of it, but he couldn't remember one such which had turned out a failure!

Dear Letty—who had known how to pass imperceptibly from youth to age with such a fine, measured dignity, while retaining so much which had made her as a girl and as an older woman the most delightful and stimulating of companions. What an agreeable difference her presence would make to his existence as he went slowly down into the shadows! He shuddered a little—the thought of old age, of real old age, becoming suddenly, vividly repugnant.

Thank God, Letty was very much younger than himself. When he was eighty she would be sixty-three. He tried to put away that thought, the thought that some day he would be infirm, as well as old.

He looked up from his book.

How odd to think that Letty had never been in this room, where he had spent so much of his life from boyhood onwards! He longed to show her some of the things he had here—family miniatures, old political caricatures, some of his favourite books—they would all interest her.

He was glad he had arranged that she should have, on this visit, his dear mother's room. When he had married—close on fifty years ago—his parents had been alive, and later his wife, as the new Lady St. Amant, had not cared to take over her predecessor's apartments. She had been very little here, for soon, poor woman, she had become an invalid—a most disagreeable, selfish invalid. He told himself that after all he had had a certain amount of excuse for—well, for the sort of existence he had led so long. If poor Adelaide had only died twenty years earlier, and he had married Letty—ah, then, he would indeed have become an exemplary character! Yet he had been faithful to Letty—in his fashion....

No other woman had even approached near the sanctuary where the woman of whom now, to-night, he was able to think as his future wife, had at once become so securely enthroned. It had first been a delicious, if a dangerous, relationship, and, later, a most agreeable friendship. During the last few months she had become rather to his surprise very necessary to him, and these last few days he had felt how pleasant it would be to have Letty always here, at the Abbey, either in his company, or resting, reading, or writing in the room where everything still spoke to him of the long-dead mother who had been so dear to him.

Of course they would wait till Oliver and Laura were married—say, till some time in February or March: and then, when those two rather tiresome younger people were disposed of, they, he and Letty, would slip up quietly to London, and, in the presence of perhaps two or three old friends, they would be made man and wife.

He reflected complacently that nothing in his life would be changed, save that Letty would be there, at the Abbey, as she had been the last few days, always ready to hear with eager interest anything he had to say, always with her point of view sufficiently unlike his own to give flavour, even sometimes a touch of the unexpected, to their conversation.

A knock at the door, and his valet came in, and walked close up to the bed.

"It's a telephone message, my lord. From Sir Angus Kinross—private to your lordship."

"Yes. What is the message?"

Lord St. Amant felt a slight tremor of discomfort sweep over him. What an odd time to send a trunk-call through—at close on midnight.

"Sir Angus has been trying to get on for some time, my lord; there was a fault on the line. Sir Angus would be much obliged if you would meet him at your lordship's rooms at one o'clock to-morrow. He says he's sorry to trouble your lordship to come up to London, but it's very important. He came himself to the telephone, my lord. He asked who I was. I did offer to fetch your lordship, but he said there was no occasion for that—if I would deliver the message myself."

"All right, Barrett."

"Sir Angus begs your lordship not to tell any one that your business to-morrow is with him."

"I quite understand that."