The first inkling that they were ever likely to move from the Trezevant place came to her through one of those overheard talks between Sterling Blaydon and his sister. They were sitting one morning in the brick-walled garden just off the rear drawing room, a lovely place, as Ellen knew, to dream and idle in, if it was deserted and she could have Moira tumbling about on the rugs at her feet. There were rows of green boxed plants along the top of the high walls, a striped awning and the clear sky spread between, like another mysterious ceiling farther away. There was comfort and security and the sense of distance too. It was like many other of the civilized refinements which Ellen discovered at the Blaydons’, suggestive of an almost incredible degree of foresight, of attention to the details of luxury, which the fortunate of the world had been developing illimitably since the first man was carried on the backs of other men. Mr. Blaydon and his sister often breakfasted in this inner garden on fine mornings, and Ellen sometimes served them herself in the absence of Marie. She believed Sterling Blaydon the most romantic personage she had ever seen. His hair was almost white, but he was young in body and in years. His lean, brown face, which she thought had a tired expression when in repose or when he was reading, lighted up marvellously when he smiled. His tall, solid form would have made two of Aunt Mathilda’s. Ellen loved to peep through the butler’s pantry doors and see him decant the special brandy for his friends after dinner, languid and big-handed and jovial through the smoky fog. This morning while he sat in the garden in the softest of grey tweeds, with his outstretched legs crossed and resting upon the tiles, she heard his drawling voice as she placed the coffee service fastidiously on the big silver tray in the pantry. Ellen liked to fondle the Blaydon china and silver. It was spoiling her; she would never want to touch anything less valuable. “I dare say it sounds like blasphemy to you,” Mr. Blaydon was saying, “but I’m sick of this place after all. I used to think I never should be.” “It’s partly Jennie’s long illness. Poor boy, you’ve had a good deal to contend with.” “I? Nonsense! But I ought to get her away from here. She could pull together faster in the country. That is to say, if she ever has strength enough to be moved. And there are the boys. I’m beginning to think this is no locality for them to grow up in. If I toss a pebble over the wall there it will land square in the melting pot--perhaps on some anarchist’s head who will throw a bomb at me one of these days.” “It’s extraordinary how well Trezevant has held its own. There seems to be a spirit in the place that won’t allow it to be tainted.”