As for Mrs. Trelawney, she was entirely content to play the dowager. The dressing-gown of Dignity was a precious change of raiment which she had never known. To be thought resplendent daily in her most comfortable hat. . . . Her pleasant quarters at _The Doublet_, the simple, abundant fare, the fragrant garden, suited her down to the ground. Besides, her darling was happy as the days were long. Salisbury was forgotten, the tour abandoned. A new tank arrived from London, but the great car seldom went forth from the coach-house where it was bestowed. If ever it did, it was sure to return before the sun was down. As for Christopher John, he watched his mistress’ progress with love in his eyes. . . . That the two saw each other most days was natural enough. If the man worked long, she found his work engaging, delighted to learn of him and study husbandry with him for husbandman. His leisure she shared naturally, as children do. He had installed her at Sundial. Besides . . . So much for Audrey. For the man—well, the love in his eyes had to be served. Often enough they repaired to Domesday Mill—a place of memories. The great wheel is silent, and the house tumbling. Ivy has run riot over the gabled roof, and the proud water, once so troubled but now unearthly still, has come to mirror the passing of the glory which it begot. But chestnut and ash and lime have come to cherish Domesday, keep it against the weather, ring it against the wind. Year by year they draw closer, put out more sheltering arms. Even now the mill lies snug in its bower as a hare in her form. True offspring of Nature, Nature is taking it back. Domesday Mill will not die; it is being translated. Audrey de Lisle was quite silly about the spot. That Christopher John had made her aware of its existence goes without saying. Thither the two had strolled one July evening, exactly a fortnight after the car had broken down. “And how,” said Christopher John, filling a pipe, “how do you like your kingdom?” “I love it,” said Miss de Lisle. “Why is everyone so nice?” “Because they love you. And they love you because you fit into their nursery rhyme.” Audrey took off her hat and shook her head. “I don’t even pretend to,” she said. “I never could. I’m pure 1930—and American. You can’t turn that into verse.” “You’re Audrey de Lisle,” said John. “And Audrey de Lisle might have sat for most of the sonnets I know.” Audrey tilted her chin. “Sonnets aren’t nursery rhymes.” “Or rhymes, either. Hang it, my dear, if you’re 1930, so’s Sundial. Don’t forget that. I don’t say it looks it, but then—neither do you.” Audrey plucked at her dress. “This came from Paris,” she said, “six weeks ago. I hardly think Bo-Peep was so extravagant. And then I sleep in pyjamas and use bath-salts and smoke. And I powder my nose and drive a high-powered car. You won’t find that sort of stuff in a nursery rhyme.”