‘Why go down to the Court? There will only be a scene if you do. Write and tell Lady Tresham of your intention.’ ‘Oh, Sir Roland, I shall _never_ forgive you if you cry off now,’ interposes Mabel. ‘You know it was a bargain that you should go with us if you could. And aunty means to take Venice on our way. Fancy Venice and gondolas in this heavenly weather! It will be _too_ delicious.’ Gondolas and Mabel Moore win the day, and Sir Roland agrees to write to his wife instead of going down to Tresham Court. ‘Now, you are quite, _quite_ sure you are not telling us a story,’ says Miss Moore, with a winning smile, ‘because I know if you go home that Lady Tresham will not let you return to us again. You _promise_ only to write, don’t you?’ ‘I _promise_!’ repeats Sir Roland, with an uneasy twinge of conscience nevertheless. But he keeps his word, and a letter by the next day’s post informs Juliet that her husband is going to visit Italy with his sister, and that she must manage matters at Tresham Court as best she can until his return. This intelligence falls upon the wife like a sudden blow. She feels very strange and awkward as the mistress of this great rambling house, with its retinue of servants, but she has been seizing the opportunity of Sir Roland’s absence to try and become acquainted with the _ménage_ of the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room, that she may astonish him with her aptitude on his return. And now he is going to leave her to fight with all her new responsibilities alone, whilst he is enjoying a trip upon the Continent. Well, she will not be so mean spirited a creature as to sit down and weep for his absence. She will show him that she can enjoy life as well as himself when she has the means to do so. Yet the tears chase themselves rapidly down her cheeks as she thinks thus to herself, for Lady Tresham has two nurses now to look after her children, and can afford to indulge her feelings without spectators. It is a bright sunny morning in the first week of August; the grounds of Tresham Court are filled with beautiful flowers and leafy trees and singing birds, and the pale-faced, weary woman takes her husband’s letter in her hand, and seats herself beneath the shade of a cedar tree on the smooth green lawn, and indulges her sorrowful thoughts to their fullest extent. Presently she hears a soft voice calling her by name. She looks up in surprise; beside her stands an elderly lady, dressed in widow’s weeds. ‘Your servants said you were not at home, Lady Tresham, but I caught a glimpse of your dress through the trees, and hoped you would not deem it a liberty if I introduced myself to you as the widow of your husband’s brother.’ ‘Lady Tresham!’ cries Juliet, springing to her feet. ‘I am glad to see you, but I am very untidy; I did not expect any one to call to-day. I did not even know that you were in the county.’