The influence of the garden extended itself to the house in these summer days. This room in which he was lying--it was a joy to wake up in it in the morning--to be awakened by the sun pouring in beams of welcome and invitation; it was a satisfaction to lie down in it at night, flooded with the fragrant air that had picked up sweetness and freshness from the trees and the grass. The stone hall was cool and gratefully dim, when one came in out of the heat and glare of the hottest hours of the day. The long low library between the sunk lawn and the cloister court, whose calf-bound treasures, which he never looked into, gave it a mellow retired air, was a pleasant room in which to write the few letters that had to be written or do the small amount of business that had to be done; or, when there were men in the house, to give them their refreshments or their tobacco in. The long gallery was a still pleasanter room, facing the setting sun and the garden and the trees, with a glimpse of the park, and nothing to be seen from its deep-recessed windows but those surrounding cultivated spaces. All the rooms of the house were pleasant rooms, and pervaded with that sense of retired and gracious beauty which came from their outlook, into garden or park or ancient court. The rain showed signs of decreasing at breakfast-time, and there were some ragged fringes to be seen in the grey curtain of cloud that had overhung the dripping world. Bradby had not put in his appearance. Although he was now made as welcome as anybody when he came to the Abbey, and had proved himself of the utmost assistance in many of the pursuits that were carried on there with such keenness, his diffidence still hung to him. Perhaps the invitation had not been clear enough; he would not come, except at times when it was clearly expected of him, or to meals, without a clearly understood invitation. Young George clamoured for him during breakfast. His father had announced a morning with letters and papers, too long postponed. Young George wanted somebody to play with, and Bradby, after his father, and now even before Barbara, was his chosen companion. "He has work to do, you know, Bunting," said Caroline. "He can't always be coming here." "He may be going about the estate," said Young George. "I shall go down to the office after breakfast." "Why don't you go over and see Jimmy Beckley?" asked Barbara. "You could ride. I'll come with you, if you like, and the Dragon will let me. I should like to see Vera and the others." Bunting thought he would. It would be rather fun to see old Jimmy, and it would be certain to clear up by the time they got to Feltham. "I believe it is going to clear up," said Grafton, looking out of the window. "Shall you and I ride too, Cara? I must write a few letters. They're getting on my mind now; but we could start about eleven."