Edgar spent a moony purposeless day, dawdling a good deal in the garden on the other side of the moat, where the long old-fashioned borders were full of tall white lilies and red moss-roses, vivid scarlet geranium, heliotrope and calceolaria, a feast of sweet scents and bright colours. There was a long and wide lawn without a flower bed on it—a level expanse of grass; and on the side opposite the flower border there was a row of good old mulberry and walnut trees; then came a light iron fence, and a stretch of meadow land beyond it. The grounds at Hawksyard made no pretence of being a park. There was not even a shrubbery, only that straight row of old trees, standing up out of the grass, with a gravel walk between them and the fence, across which Edgar used to feed and fondle his cows, or coax the shy brood mares and their foals to social intercourse. He looked round his domain doubtfully to-day, wondering if it were good enough for Daphne, this poor table-land of a garden, a flat lawn, a long old-fashioned border crammed with homely flowers, the yew-tree arbour at the end of yonder walk. How poor a thing it seemed after South Hill, with its picturesque timber and extensive view, its broad terrace and sloping lawn, its rich variety of shrubs and conifers! ‘It isn’t because I am fond of the place that she would care for it,’ he told himself despondently. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing romantic or striking about it—except the moat. I’m glad she’s so fond of water.’ Edgar smoked a cigarette or two under the mulberry-trees, looked at his cows, talked to some of his men, and thus contrived to wear away the afternoon till the clock over the gateway struck five. ‘Mother’s tea-time. I’ll go and have a cup with her,’ he said to himself. Going out to dinner was a tremendous piece of business with Mrs. Turchill. She was more serious and solemn about it than a strictly modern lady would feel about going to be married. Even in an instance of this kind, where the dinner was supposed to be entirely unceremonious, a friendly little gathering arranged on the spur of the moment, she was still full of fuss and preparation. She had spent an hour in her bed-chamber before luncheon, arranging and discussing with her maid Deborah what gown she would or would not wear on the occasion; and this discussion involved a taking out and unfolding of all her dinner-gowns, and an offering of divers laces upon divers bodices, to see which went best with which. A review of this kind generally ended by a decision in favour of black velvet, or satin, or silk, or brocade, as the case might be; Mrs. Turchill being much richer in gowns than in opportunities for wearing them. ‘I always like myself best in black,’ she would say, with a glance at the reflection of her somewhat florid complexion in the Chippendale glass. ‘You always look the lady in your velvet, mum,’ Deborah would answer sententiously.