“He seems perfectly happy and satisfied, though he detests Miss Parrett and says the car is an old rattle-trap. He has no pals, very little to do, and has taken to gardening and singing in the choir.” She paused expressively. “Somehow I don’t see Owen in _that_ picture, do you?” “Can’t say I do,” replied her husband. “Just the last sort of life to suit him, I should have thought. Martin, do you suppose that’s a faked-up letter, and he wrote it to relieve my mind?” “No; the chap hasn’t it in him to fake anything. I’d rather like to hear his attempts at the local dialect!” “Then tell me what you really think; I see you have something in your head.” “My dear, I’m astonished you don’t see it for yourself! You are ten times as clear-sighted as I am,” and he hesitated; “why, of course, there’s a young woman in the case.” “He never mentions her!” objected his wife. “A deadly symptom.” “Some village girl--no. And he is bound not to think of any love-affair or entanglement for two whole years.” “How long has he been at Ottinge--four weeks, eh?” She nodded. “Well, I believe that, in spite of your uncle and you, Owen is in love with some one already.” CHAPTER XIV LIEUTENANT WYNYARD It was an undeniable fact that the chauffeur spent much more time in the Manor grounds than driving the car. The car was rarely used, and anything was better than loafing about the yard or the village with his hands in his pockets--one of the unemployed. Wynyard liked the fresh smell of the earth, and growing things, the songs of birds--especially of the blackbird, with his leisurely fluting note. The garden, which lay to the left of the house, overlooked meadows, and was evidently as ancient as the Manor itself. It was also one after the heart of Bacon, “Spacious and fair, encompassed with a stately hedge.” The farmer, who had neglected the roof and upper floors of the dwelling, had suffered these same yew hedges to grow as they pleased; and they now required a great deal of labour in trimming them to moderate proportions. The soil was rich--anything and everything seemed to flourish in the garden, which was intersected by broad gravelled walks that crossed one another at regular intervals; these were lined by a variety of old-fashioned plants--myrtle, lavender, and sweetbrier, grown to gigantic dimensions; here were also Madonna Lilies, London Pride, Hollyhocks, Sweet-William, and bushes of out-of-date roses, such as the “York and Lancaster,” and other Georgian survivals. Precisely in the middle of the garden, where four walks met, was a hoary sundial, which bore the inscription, “TIME TRIES ALL.” A path, leading direct from the sundial to an ancient bowling-green, was enclosed with rustic arches, and in the summer time the Manor pergola was a veritable tunnel of roses, and one of the sights of the neighbourhood.