Madoline was delighted to see her sister so happy, delighted at Edgar’s obvious devotion. She had no doubt that his love would be rewarded in due course. It is in a woman’s nature to be grateful for such honest affection, to be won by such disinterested fidelity. The brazen hands of the old clock at Hawksyard indicated a quarter to eight, as the carriage drove across the bridge, and under the arched gateway into the quadrangular garden, with its sunk pathways, and shallow steps, and border-lines of crumbling old stone. Mrs. Turchill was standing on the threshold—a dignified figure in a gray poplin gown and old thread-lace cap and ruffles—ready to receive them. She gave Madoline her blandest smile, and was tolerably gracious to the rival who had spoiled her son’s chances; but she could not bring herself to be cordial to Daphne. Her silk bodice became as rigid as an Elizabethan corset when she greeted that obnoxious damsel. She had a shrewd suspicion that it was for her sake the fatted calf had been killed, and all the available cream in the dairy squandered upon sweets and made dishes, with a reckless disregard of next Saturday’s butter-making. Yet as Daphne shyly put out her hand to accept that cold greeting, too sensitive not to perceive the matron’s unfriendliness, Mrs. Turchill could but own to herself that the minx was passing lovely. The brilliant gray eyes, shadowed with dark lashes; the dark brows and golden hair; the complexion of lilies and roses; the sensitive mouth; the play of life and colour in a face that varied with every thought—yes; this made beauty which even Mrs. Turchill could not deny. ‘Handsome is that handsome does,’ thought the dowager. ‘God forbid that my boy should trust the happiness of his life to such a butterfly.’ Inwardly rebellious, she had nevertheless done her duty as a good housekeeper. The old oak-dadoed drawing-room was looking its prettiest, brightened by oriental jars and bowls of scarlet geraniums and creamy roses, lavender and honeysuckle. The silver chandelier and fire-irons were resplendent with recent polishing. The diamond-paned lattices were opened to admit the scent of heliotrope and mignonette from the garden on the other side of the moat; while one deeply-recessed window looking into the quadrangle let in the perfume of the old-world flowers Francis Bacon loved. Edgar insisted upon showing Daphne the house during the ten minutes before dinner. ‘You have only been here once,’ he said, ‘and my mother did not show you anything.’