‘Oh, yes, I hope so sincerely, Farningham. He says he shall miss the grouse this year; but I quite expect him for the partridge-shooting. And after that he is sure to go down to Thistlemere for the hunting season. He couldn’t live without his horses for long, Farningham.’ ‘No, ma’am, he’s a true nobleman for that is his lordship, and I guessed as much; but I’m glad to hear you say so, for there’s no heart in getting horses in first-rate order if no one’s to see ’em or use ’em. Good morning, ma’am, and I hope we shall see his lordship soon again, for all our sakes,’ which hope Miss Llewellyn heartily echoed. CHAPTER III. The morning was beautiful, though very warm, and Miss Llewellyn thought she could not spend it better than in taking a long drive. She felt as if she could not stay in the house. Some intuitive dread or fear, she knew not which, possessed her--as if she had an enemy in ambush, and anticipated an assault. When she tried to analyse this feeling, she laid it to the proximity of her relations and the possibility of their hearing more of her domestic life than she wished them to know. ‘But it is all because Ilfracombe is not at home,’ she said to herself. ‘If he were here, he would laugh me out of such a piece of folly. As if they possibly _could_ hear. Who could tell them, when they know no one in London. I am a silly fool.’ When she entered the open carriage, and the footman attended her orders, she told him to drive as far into the country as possible. ‘Tell Jenkins to go right away from town, up to Hampstead, or out to Barnes. I want all the fresh air I can get.’ So she was carried swiftly towards Wimbledon, and had soon left the hot bricks and mortar behind her, and was revelling in the sight of green hedges and stretches of common. ‘How fresh and sweet it all seems,’ she thought; ‘but not half so fresh and sweet as round Usk and by dear Panty-cuckoo Farm. How luscious the honeysuckle used to smell, that trailed over the porch by the side door. And how thickly it grew. I used to tear off the blossoms by thousands to suck their petals. And the apple orchard, it was a mass of white and pink flowers in spring, like a bridal bouquet. They must have all fallen by this time, and left the little green apples in their stead. What a thief I was in my early days. I can remember lanky Hugh Owen catching me robbing Mr Potter’s plum tree, and the long-winded lecture he gave me on the rights of meum and tuum. I wonder if the sermons he preaches now are as prosy and as long. If so, I pity his congregation. He was always so terribly in earnest. What would he say if he knew all about me now?’