Mr. Horner, in his suburban villa, was at that very moment lamenting his cousin’s absurd extravagance. “He was always wanting in common-sense, poor fellow,” observed Mrs. Horner. “But to hire a coach-and-four just to take into the country his own family and that criminal’s children, and those precious Norwegians, who apparently think themselves on a level with the highest in the land—that beats everything! I suppose he’ll be wanting to hire a palace for them next bank holiday!” As a matter of fact, the farm-house accommodation was rather limited, but no one cared about that. Though the rooms were small, they had a most delicious smell of the country about them, and every one, moreover, was in a humor to be as much out of doors as possible. The time seemed to all of them a little like that summer holiday at Balholm in its freedom and brightness and good-fellowship. The delightful rambles over the breezy downs, the visit to the lighthouse, the friendly chats with the coast-guardsmen, the boating excursions, and the quiet country Sunday—all remained in their memories for long after. To Roy those days were idyllic; and Sigrid, too, began to understand for the first time that he was something more to her than Frithiof’s friend. The two were much together, and on the Monday afternoon, when the rest of the party had gone off again to the lighthouse for Lance’s special benefit, they wandered away along the shore, nominally searching among the rocks for anemones, but far too much absorbed in each other to prove good collectors.