“

My dear Henry,” Lady Mary said, a few days later, swinging round in her chair from the writing-table, “whatever in this world induced you to encourage that extraordinary person Bertrand Saton to settle down in this part of the world?”

Rochester continued for a moment to gaze out of the window across the Park, with expressionless face.

“My dear Mary,” he said, “I did not encourage him to do anything of the sort.”

“You let him Blackbird’s Nest,” she reminded him.

“I had scarcely a reasonable excuse for refusing to let it,” Rochester answered. “I did not suggest that he should take it. I merely referred him to my agents. He went to see old Bland the very next morning, and the thing was arranged.”

“I think,” Lady Mary said deliberately, “that it is one of those cases where you should have exercised a little more discrimination. This is a small neighborhood, and I find it irritating to be continually running up against people whom I dislike.”

“You dislike Saton?” Rochester remarked, nonchalantly.

“Dislike is perhaps a strong word,” his wife answered. “I distrust him. I disbelieve in him. And I dislike exceedingly the friendship between him and Lois.”

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

“Does it amount to a friendship?” he asked.

“What else?” his wife answered. “It was obvious that she was interested in him when he was staying here, and twice since I have met them walking together. I hate mysterious people. They tell me that he has made Blackbird’s Nest look like a museum inside, and there is the most awful old woman, with white hair and black eyes, who never leaves his side, they say, when he is at home.”

“She is,” Rochester remarked, “I presume, of an age to disarm scandal?”

“She looks as old as Methuselah,” his wife answered, “but what does the man want with such a creature at all?”

“She may be an elderly relative,” Rochester suggested.

“Relative? Why, she calls herself the Comtesse somebody!” Lady Mary declared. “I do wish you would tell me, Henry, exactly what you know and what you do not know about this young man.”

“What I do know is simple enough,” he answered. “What I do not know would, I begin to believe, fill a volume.”

“Then you had better go and see him, and readjust matters,” she declared, a little sharply. “I want Lois to marry well, and she mustn’t have her head turned by this young man.”

Rochester strolled through the open French-window into the flower-garden. He pulled a low basket chair out into the sun, close to a bed of pink and white hyacinths. A man-servant, seeing him, brought out the morning papers, which had just arrived, but Rochester waved them away.

“Fancy reading the newspapers on a morning like this!” he murmured, half to himself. “The person who would welcome the intrusion of a world of vulgar facts into an Æsthetically perfect half-hour, deserves—well, deserves to be the sort of person he must be. Take the papers away, Groves,” he added, as the man stood by, a little embarrassed. “Take them to Lord Penarvon or Mr. Hinckley.”

The man bowed and withdrew. Rochester half closed his eyes, but opened them again almost immediately. A white clad figure was passing down the path on the other side of the lawn. He roused himself to a sitting posture.

“Lois!” he called out. “Lois!”

She waved her hand, but did not stop. He rose to his feet and called again. She paused with a reluctance which was indifferently concealed.

“I am going down to the village,” she said.

He crossed the lawn towards her.

“I will be a model host,” he said, “and come with you. It is always the function of the model host, is it not, to neglect the whole of the rest of the guests, and attach himself to the one most charming?”

She shook her head at him.

“I dare not risk being so unpopular,” she declared. “Really, don’t bother to come. It is such a very short distance.”

“That decides me,” he answered, falling into step with her. “A short walk is exactly what I want. For the last few days I have been oppressed with a horrible fear. I am afraid of growing fat!”

She looked at his long slim figure, and laughed derisively.

“You will have to find another reason for this sudden desire for exercise,” she remarked.

“Do I need to find one?” he answered, laughing down into her pretty face.

She shook her head.

“This is all very well,” she said, “but I quite understand that it is my last morning. I know what will happen this afternoon, and I really do not think that I shall allow you to come past that gate.”

“Why not?” he asked earnestly.

“You know very well that Pauline is coming,” she answered.

The change in his face was too slight for her to notice it, but there was a change. His lips moved as though he were repeating the name to himself.

“And why should Pauline’s coming affect the situation?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You say nice things to me,” she declared, looking at him reproachfully, “but only when Pauline isn’t here. We all know that directly she comes we are no longer any of us human beings. I wish I were intelligent.”

“Don’t!” he begged. “Don’t wish anything so foolish. Intelligence is the greatest curse of the day. Few people possess it, it is true, but those few spend most of their time wishing they were fools.”

“Am I a fool?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “All pretty and charming people are fools.”

“And Pauline?” she asked.

“Pauline, unfortunately, is amongst the cursed,” he answered.

“That, I suppose,” she remarked, “is what brings you so close together.”

“It is a bond of common suffering,” he declared. “By the bye, who is this ferocious-looking person?”

It was Saton who had suddenly turned the corner, and whose expression had certainly darkened for a moment as he came face to face with the two. He was correctly enough dressed in gray tweeds and thick walking boots, but somehow or other his sallow face and dark, plentiful hair, seemed to go oddly with his country clothes.

Rochester glanced at his companion, and he distinctly saw a little grimace. Saton would have passed on, for Rochester’s nod was of the slightest, but Lois insisted upon stopping.

“Mr. Saton,” she said, “I have been hearing all sorts of wonderful things about your house. When are you going to ask us all to tea to see your curiosities?”

Saton looked into Rochester’s immovable face.

“Whenever you choose to come,” he answered calmly. “I am nearly always at home in the afternoon, or rather I shall be after next Thursday,” he added, as an afterthought. “I am going to town this evening.”

“Going away?” she asked, a little blankly.

“I have to go up to London,” he answered, “but it is only for two days.”

There was a short, uneasy silence. Rochester purposely avoided speech. He understood the situation exactly. They had something to say to one another, and wished him away.

“You won’t be able to send me that book, then?” she asked.

“I will leave it at the house this afternoon, if I may,” he answered, half looking toward Rochester.

Rochester made no sign. Saton raised his cap and passed on.

“Wonderful syringa bush, that,” Rochester remarked, pointing with his stick.

“Wonderful!” Lois answered.

“Quite an ideal village, mine,” he continued. “You see there are crocuses growing out even in the roadway.”

“Very pretty!” she answered.

“You are not by any chance annoyed with me?”

“I did not think you were very civil to that poor young man.”

“Naturally,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to be civil. I am one of those simple folk who are always annoyed by the incomprehensible. I do not understand Mr. Bertrand Saton. I do not quite understand, either, why you should find him an interesting companion for your morning walks.”

“You are a hateful person!” she declared, as he held open the gate which led back to the Park.

“I intend to remain so,” he answered drily.

The sound of footsteps coming along the path which they had just quitted, attracted his attention momentarily. He turned round. Lois, too, hesitated.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the newcomer said, “but can you tell me whereabouts in this neighborhood I can find a house called Blackbird’s Nest? A Mr. Bertrand Saton lives there, I believe.”

Rochester hesitated for a few seconds. He looked at the woman, summing her up with swift comprehension. Lois, by his side, stared at her in surprise. She was inclined to be stout, and her face was flushed with walking, notwithstanding an obviously recent use of the powder-puff. A mass of copper-colored hair was untidily arranged underneath a large black hat. Her clothes were fashionable in cut, but cheap in quality. She wore openwork stockings and high-heeled shoes, which had already suffered from walking along the dusty roads. While she waited for an answer to her question, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and the perfume of the violet scented hedge by the side of which they stood, was no longer a thing apparent.

Rochester, whose hatred of perfumes was one of his few weaknesses, drew back a step involuntarily.

“If you pass through the village,” he said, “Blackbird’s Nest is the second house upon the right-hand side. It lies a little way back from the road, but you cannot miss it.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged,” the lady answered. “If I had known it was as far as this, I’d have waited till I could have found a carriage. The porter at the station told me that it was just a step.”

Rochester raised his cap and turned away. Lois walked soberly by his side for several moments.

“I wonder,” she said softly, “what a person like that could want with Mr. Saton.”

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

“We know nothing of Saton or his life,” he answered. “He has wandered up and down the world, and I daresay he has made some queer acquaintances.”

“But his taste,” Lois persisted, “is so perfect. I cannot understand his permitting a creature like that to even come near him.”

Rochester smiled.

“One does strange things under compulsion,” he remarked. “I see that they have been rolling the putting greens. Shall we go and challenge Penarvon and Mrs. Hinckley to a round at golf?”

She glanced once more over her shoulder toward the village—perhaps beyond.

“If you like,” she answered, resignedly.