When they drove up the chestnut avenue that led to the Manor, and stopped before the old grey house with its ancient tiled roof and mullioned windows, Gentian expressed her admiration. She looked curiously about her as they entered the old square hall, and were ushered into the smoking-room and library where Thorold usually sat. Tea was spread on an oval table by the fire, which was an open one, and the blazing logs shed a bright glow on the silver tea service. Thorold came forward to greet them. "And this was my cousin's home," were Gentian's first words. Her face was grave as she spoke. Thorold looked at her. "Are you sorry you did not come here in his life time?" he asked her. "Certainly not. He was a stranger to me. Why should I leave my mother to go to a stranger?" "Now, Gentian," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe lightly: "we are here to enjoy ourselves, so we won't rake up the past. Shall I pour out tea for you, Thorold? I generally do, don't I?" She sat down to the table and made light conversation; for she did not want any sparring matches just now. Gentian relapsed into rather a pensive mood, but after tea she wandered up to the bookshelves. "Would you like to borrow a book?" asked Thorold. "I have all sorts and conditions as you see. Some of them are the best friends I have." Gentian's eyes glistened as she took one and another out of their shelves to look at. With a little nod of approval she said: "Ah yes, when I am very miserable, very lonely; when I have made Waddy weep, and feel it's an empty world I live in, I creep inside a book, and stay there till I'm happy again. I would like this life of a hunter in the Himalayas; may I take it?" "Yes, do, only don't wait till you are miserable to read it. And now I want to show you my garden, and then I'm going to take you into the small church close by. It's a little gem of the fifteenth century and has a most wonderful screen." They wandered out into an old-fashioned sunk garden laid out in rather the Dutch style. Gentian did not like it, and frankly said so. "Poor little bulbs, what freedom and individuality have they? All in rows and circles, the red together and then the yellows and then the blues! How sick they must get of each other! How they must long to get away alone and grow their own lives as they like. When I get rich—and I mean to one day—I shall have a garden where each flower will feel it is an individual personality. I won't have masses of the same sort all together—so monotonous and tame it must be for them! Ah! This is better." She was standing in the rock garden, and in every cleft of the rocks different plants were blooming. "You're a rebel by nature," said Thorold pleasantly; "that's the way with a good many nowadays. Every one wants to grow as he likes." "No, no. But we can have a corner to ourselves and not have every idea quenched."