‘The London theatres are very nice,’ said Mrs. Turchill, not quite following Daphne’s idea. ‘But they are rather warm in summer. Yet one likes to go up to town in the height of the season. There is so much to see.’ ‘Mother’s constitution is cast-iron when she gets to London,’ said Edgar. ‘She is up at six every morning, and goes to the picture-galleries as soon as the doors are opened; and does her morning in Hyde Park, and her afternoon in Regent Street, shopping, or staring in at the shop-windows; and eats her dinner at the most crowded restaurant I can take her to; and winds up at the theatre. I believe she’d accept a lobster-supper in the Haymarket if I were to offer one.’ ‘Has Miss Daphne Lawford never been in London?’ asked Mrs. Turchill. ‘Oh, please don’t call me miss. I am never anything but Daphne to my friends.’ ‘You are very kind,’ answered Mrs. Turchill, stiffening; ‘but I don’t think I could take so great a liberty with you on such a short acquaintance.’ ‘Short acquaintance!’ echoed Daphne, laughing. ‘Why, you must have known me when I was in my cradle.’ Mrs. Turchill grew suddenly red, as if the idea were embarrassing. ‘I was invited to your christening,’ she said; ‘but—afterwards—there were circumstances—Sir Vernon was so often abroad. We did not see much of you.’ ‘If you wish me to feel at home at Hawksyard you must call me Daphne, please,’ said the girl gently. Mrs. Turchill did not wish her to feel at home at Hawksyard; yet she could not refuse compliance with so gracious a request. The ladies rose to retire, Edgar opening the door for them. ‘Do you want any more wine, Turchill?’ asked Gerald. ‘No, not particularly; but you’ll try that other claret, won’t you?’ ‘Not a drop of it. I vote we all adjourn to the garden.’ So they all went out together into the twilit quadrangle, where the old-fashioned flowers were folding their petals for night and slumber, while the moon was rising above a cluster of stone chimneys. Mrs. Turchill walked once round the little enclosure, discoursing graciously with Madoline, and then confessed to feeling chilly, and being afraid of the night air; although a very clever doctor, with somewhat new-fangled ideas, had told her that the air was as good by night as by day, provided the weather were dry. ‘I think I’ll go indoors and sit in the drawing-room till you come in to tea,’ she said. ‘I hope you won’t think me rude.’ Madoline offered to go with her, but this Mrs. Turchill would not allow. ‘Young people enjoy a moonlight stroll,’ she said; ‘I liked it myself when I was your age. There’s no occasion for any of you to hurry. I shall amuse myself with _The Times_. I haven’t looked at it yet.’