Sir William Eldridge, with a step wonderfully light and quick for a man of his years and weight, came out of his brother's garden by a gate that led to a woodland path, and so down a long slope under the thick shade of trees, till the wood gave place to an open meadow bordered by a placid-flowing stream—almost a river. The meadow sloped up to the high woods which enclosed it in a long crescent, but on the other side of the stream was open grass-land, with lines of willows here and there, dykes, and little bits of wooden fences. Cattle were dotted all over it, feeding peacefully in the hot afternoon sunshine, or recumbent on the rich turf. In the distance were more woods, and where the river took a turn and followed the contour of the hill in front, it was seen to be flowing towards a lake of considerable size, to judge by the growth of the trees which encircled and hid all but the nearer end of it.

The river path continued for a quarter of a mile or so, and then once more became a woodland path, turning sharply to the left and rising more steeply than it had dropped in the other wood. The exit there had been by a stile, not as firm as it might have been under the weight of a big man. But this entrance was by a closely fitting gate, and a new solid fence ran away to right and left of it, gate and fence alike carrying an elaborate wire defence against rabbits.

Sir William climbed the steep path, slowly, but not, apparently, because of any necessity to save his breath. He looked to right and left of him with interest at the plantings of shrubs and flowers and ferns that had been made in clearings under the trees. On the outside this was a thick wood, as the other had been; but once through the gate it was seen to be a garden, full of interest and surprise. Little winding paths led off from the main ascent, and Sir William followed one or two of these to look at some treasure that he had established, and lingered over it as if his chief interest in life were the planting and the growth of flowers.

The steep path became a rocky staircase, which emerged from the wood into an elaborate rock garden, so artfully constructed that it seemed almost a natural outcrop from the leafy soil. On the further side the trees closed in on it again, but they had been still further thinned out here and did not conceal the artificially flat expanse of tennis and croquet lawn upon which the path came somewhat too suddenly. Immediately beyond the lawn was a house—a long rambling structure of many-gabled red brick and tile, with rose-covered verandas, loggias, pergolas, and all the paraphernalia of a rich man's country cottage. The original house, of a date somewhere about the seventies, was ugly enough, and had never pretended to be a cottage; and the additions, though in much better architectural taste, were incongruous to it. But it might have been supposed, even from an outside view, that everything about this house would be of the highest possible convenience for a life of country pleasure, and that if anything should occur to its occupants that would improve its amenities in this respect it would promptly be supplied.

Four young people were playing lawn tennis, and four older people were playing croquet, as Sir William came within sight of the lawn, and on the broad pillared veranda which finished off the house at this end other people were sitting, and servants were arranging tea-tables. House and garden seemed to be fulfiling their purpose with these groups of people laughing and talking and playing games in the summer afternoon, and everything at hand to enhance their enjoyment. Sir William's face lightened as he waved his greetings. He loved these lively gatherings of the summer time. He had something to offer at Hayslope Grange that people found it worth while to seek out and enjoy. There was more coming and going between the Grange and Pershore Castle, the Earl of Crowborough's seat five miles away, than between the Castle and Hayslope Hall, although the two families had run neck and neck in this part of the country for generations, and intimacy had established itself between their two houses almost to the exclusion of others.

It was with Lord Crowborough that Sir William walked down to the meadow which he wanted to bring into his garden, while the rest of the party were still busy round the tea-tables. Lord Crowborough was a man of sixty, heavy in bulk and somewhat heavy in demeanour, though with a kindly expression of face and of speech that relieved him of the charge of pomposity. He was disturbed, it appeared, at the coolness that had arisen between him and his old friend and neighbour, Edmund Eldridge, and wanted a word about it alone with Sir William. "Such old friends!" was the burden of his regrets. And he enlarged on it: "Surely such old friends ought to be able to speak freely to one another—even lose their tempers; we both did that, but surely—"

Sir William was more silent under the complaints than would have seemed to be natural to him. "It was the charge of swindling," he said rather shortly.

"Oh, I know," said Lord Crowborough. "After all your kindness, one doesn't want—"

"Never mind about that," Sir William interrupted him almost peremptorily. There was a hint in his manner that spoke of another man than the one who grew his flowers and welcomed his friends at Hayslope Grange. Lord Crowborough, some years older, and of greater apparent importance, seemed to bow to it. "I know it was never to be mentioned," he said, apologetically. "Very well. But really, you know, William—! Well, the poor fellow's dead; but he was an out and out wrong 'un. I did do my best to hush it all up. Edmund must know that. If it had come out he'd have been kicked out of the regiment. I should think he must know that, too, if he thinks straight about it at all."

"Perhaps he doesn't think quite straight about it, poor old chap! You can hardly blame him. As far as I'm concerned I'm going to do all I can to encourage him to think that Hugo was just sowing his wild oats, and that he'd have settled down to be a credit to his name. I'm afraid it isn't true, but surely it's a good thing if Edmund can think so."

"Oh, yes, I quite agree. Poor old fellow! I'll ask him to dine. I remember him quite well as a little fellow—you too, of course. I believe I was even a sort of hero of his when I was a big boy and he was a little one."

Sir William laughed. "Of course you were," he said. "I think that's the line to go on, you know. Old times, and all that. At least, I shouldn't mention the affair again, if I were you. Treat him with—well, affection. I know you feel that for him. The row will pass over. He's sore all round. He's sore about Hugo. He's a little sore about my stepping into the position of heir to him—though, goodness knows, I've no wish to change places with him in any way."

"No, you've made yourself a bigger man than he is."

"Well, that's as may be. Anyhow, I'm in a different line altogether. He's nothing to be sore about there; and we stick together. I can help him in lots of ways, if he'll let me."

"He's stiff about things; he's got stiffer as he's got older."

"Yes, that's true. He's the military type; and going back to his old job during the war has brought it out in him, more than ever. Still, I know well enough how to deal with men of that sort—had lots of practice at it lately. And Edmund's my brother. I'm fond of him. In some ways I look up to him; he's straight and honest as the day. And he's affectionate, too, under his stiffness. You can't drive him, but you can lead him, if you're careful in the way you do it. Hold out a hand to him, Crowborough. He'll respond all right, and you'll soon git rid of that soreness."

They strolled back to the upper garden together, and Lord Crowborough lost no time in goading his wife into asking Mrs. Eldridge to dine. It was necessary to detach her from the side of Lady Eldridge and draw her a little aside, and it was plain to everybody that something in the way of pressure was being exercised. Lady Crowborough did not want to invite the Eldridges. She was more incensed against Colonel Eldridge than her husband, and had no memory of intimacies of early childhood to soften her towards him. However, she obeyed her husband, as a good wife should. She had not yet had any conversation with Mrs. Eldridge, and might even have been supposed to have avoided her. But she went straight up to her and said: "We haven't really seen anything of each other for months. I wish you and your husband and Pamela would come over and dine to-morrow evening. Lord and Lady Branchley aren't going until Tuesday, and I've asked the Hobkirks and one or two other people."

Mrs. Eldridge looked up at her from the cushioned chair in which she was sitting, so very much at her ease, showing the neatest feet and ankles under her short-skirted summer frock. A wonderful woman for her age, it was the custom to say of her. Her age might have been forty-five, but she looked at least ten years younger than that, and on some occasions younger still. There was not a thread of grey in her rippling, lustrous brown hair; her cheeks were softly rounded, her skin was fresh. She wore a large flowery hat, which accentuated the graceful slimness of her form. She looked up at Lady Crowborough, looming profusely above her, out of untroubled blue eyes. "Thanks so much," she said. "I'm not sure what Edmund is doing to-morrow. Pamela and I could come. I could let you know if he can't."

Lady Crowborough grunted. She was a tall, upright woman with a decorative faÇade, and seemed to have been formed by nature to play the part of a great lady. But there was something lacking in her equipment. She was easily flustered, and when confronted with any difficulty seemed to lose even in physical bulk. "Crowborough particularly wanted me to ask Colonel Eldridge," she said in a tone that did not carry out the promise of the preliminary grunt.

"So I saw," said Mrs. Eldridge, with unbaffled sweetness. "It was very good of him. I don't see in the least why he shouldn't come, but it's never safe to make promises for him. If you don't want me and Pamela without him—"

"Oh, of course I do, if he can't come. Yes, of course I shall be delighted. It's really ages since we saw anything of one another."

She suddenly became friendly and confidential, dropping into a seat next to Mrs. Eldridge's, and demanding her ear for a low-spoken account of the trouble she had been going through with a laundry maid who had unwisely loved a Canadian soldier. Mrs. Eldridge was all sympathy, but managed to impart some lightness into an affair that Lady Crowborough had never thought to regard as anything but a gloomy tragedy. When she took leave of her Lady Crowborough's manner was intimately affectionate. She kissed her and called her "my dear," and said what a comfort it was to pour out one's troubles to an old friend.

Afterwards, in conversation with her husband, she was a little doubtful whether she had not gone rather too far. "Of course I have known her for a good many years," she said. "And I've always liked her too. But the fact is, I like her better when I'm with her than when I'm away from her; I don't know why. She's got a sort of way with her."

"She's a very charming woman," said Lord Crowborough. "I've nothing against her at all. I don't know why you shouldn't like her when you're away from her. Anyhow, I'm glad you made a bit of a fuss with her. And evidently she responded, from what you say. No doubt she wants this trouble ended. So do we. Poor old Edmund! I've forgiven him for what he said, though 'pon my word it was outrageous."

"Well, I said I never would forget it," said Lady Crowborough. "And really, John, when I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure you're right in making it so plain that we are anxious to see Colonel Eldridge back on the old terms with us. Perhaps he'll even refuse my invitation, and we shall have given him a handle. If he does come, of course I shall be polite to him, but I've no intention of treating him in the same way as I have Cynthia."

"Well, I don't suppose you'll kiss him; but I'm quite sure you won't treat him stiffly, my dear. You may begin like that, but you're incapable of keeping it up."

Lady Crowborough sighed. "I am like that," she admitted. "I get carried away."

When the party from Pershore Castle had driven off, Lady Eldridge took her sister-in-law into the house, leaving the young people still at their games, and Sir William, who had changed into gleaming white, playing with them. Lady Eldridge was a handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired woman, very well preserved for her years, which were about the same as those of Mrs. Eldridge, but without the look of fragile youth that was the note of that lady's appearance in her most favourable moments. She had an agreeable, decisive manner of speech, and a straightforward, honest look. The two of them had been friends at school, and it was at Hayslope Hall that Lady Eldridge had first met her husband, at that time a young barrister, not entirely briefless, or he would not have been in a position to marry, but with nothing in his prospects to indicate the opulence that he now so much enjoyed.

Lady Eldridge's special room was the most recent addition to the house, pleasing in its proportions and decoration, and beautifully but quietly furnished. Mrs. Eldridge sank into a deep cushioned chair, and said with a plaintive sigh: "I wish I could afford a room like this. You've made such a perfect success of it, Eleanor. I don't think it could possibly be nicer."

"It's very sweet of you to say so, my dear. But I don't think you have any cause to grumble, with all the beautiful old things you have in your room. Of course these are mostly old, too, but then they have all been bought. I might easily have gone wrong, you know. You don't think it looks like just money, do you?"

"Oh, no! Oh, no!" Mrs. Eldridge held up hands of expostulation. Then she dropped the subject. "The Crowboroughs want to bury the hatchet," she said. "I'm glad enough, I do hate rows, especially between old friends. But my poor old Edmund had a lot to put up with. I suppose Lord Crowborough means well. It's what everybody says of him. It's what they generally do say of thoroughly tiresome people, isn't it?—especially if they've got titles. Of course he is tiresome, and so is she, but both of them have their uses, so one puts up with it."

Lady Eldridge laughed. Her laugh was agreeable to listen to, and always meant that she was amused. "What uses?" she asked.

"Well, there's the Castle to go to, for one thing."

"You used to bewail your lot in being expected to go so much to the Castle."

"My dear, I've grown wiser, as well as a good deal poorer. Nobody can deny that the Castle is desperately dull, entirely owing to the people who inhabit it; for it's a fine enough house. But they do occasionally have people to stay, though I don't know whether you've noticed that the same people seldom come twice. It's a house to go to. To that I've come—that I'm thankful for an invitation to dine at Pershore Castle. I'm not sure that I didn't even angle for it. I certainly intimated that if Edmund didn't think it good enough, the invitation was on no account to be withdrawn from Pam and me. I made eyes at her, and she gave in at once. She thinks I'm a very sweet woman, until she goes away from me, and then she's not so sure about it. Am I a sweet woman, Eleanor, or a bit of a cat? I'm never quite certain."

"You were a very sweet child," said Lady Eldridge, whose face had become rather serious during this speech. "I always loved you and always shall. And as long as you say everything you think to me...."

"Oh, my dear, I shall always do that. You're one of the few comforts left to me in life. I can't grumble to Edmund, or the children. Besides, you're so generous. I should never have had my little bit of London this year but for you. How I should have missed it! And how I enjoyed it! There is no doubt that one does enjoy pleasures that come to one unexpectedly more than those that one takes as a matter of course."

"Well, Cynthia, you know that until you have a house of your own again in London, ours is there for you to come to whenever you like. And for the girls too. It doesn't want saying, does it, dear? We've always been very close together. There was a time when I owed almost all my pleasures in life to you, and I don't forget how generous you were. We've been fortunate, Bill and I, and at a time when so many people have had to alter their way of living. It's nice to think that our good fortune is of use not only to ourselves; that those we love can share it with us. I suppose there aren't many people who are so close together as you and Edmund and Bill and I. And our children too. I can't imagine anything that would come between us."

"No," said Mrs. Eldridge. "I can't either. It's a great comfort to have you here. I don't know what we should do without you."