“No, thank you, brother,” replied Miss Ashley; “we will sit upon the seat. Go on with your game, and let papa beat you this time.” She unfolded and spread upon the stone of the bench an Indian shawl which she was carrying over her arm. “Now, Lucienne, sit down, and pray that papa may have better luck. . . . No, don’t allow Rover to put his paws on your gown. Rover! Down, sir! Lie there and be quiet.” The setter subsided at their feet, and, to the accompaniment of criticism or applause from the two girls, Sir William and his son began a fresh game. As she sat there looking at them the golden content of that English afternoon swam into Lucienne’s soul. It was so peaceful; they were so kind to her—Sir William, George—if only he had not reminded her oddly of the Marquis—and above all Amelia, with her brisk high spirits and her warm heart. The memory of those last racking days in Paris was beginning to grow a little less unbearable, or, rather, there were things here which made it possible for her to keep from thinking of them always—even little things such as those which soothed her now, the click of the bowls, the sun on the grass, Amelia’s pleasant chatter, the silky coat of the setter at her feet. Perhaps in time such influences would lay those two spectres of her own creating—her possible betrayal of Louis to Gilbert, her certain betrayal of herself to Louis. Presently a servant came out and spoke to the master of the house, who, when the man retired, broke off his game and came over to the girls. “Mr Harry Trenchard of Dewlands has just ridden over to see us, my dear,” he said to his daughter, pulling down his waistcoat. “I’ve told ’em to show him out here. Can’t think what he wants; we don’t often see him in these parts. He’ll make yet another beau for Miss Lucy here, eh?” Lucienne, looking up without any particular enthusiasm, beheld, walking along an alley, an alert and personable young man in riding costume. He came up, was greeted by Sir William and his son, paid his respects to Amelia, and was presented to Mademoiselle d’Aucourt, at whom he looked with an interest which he was at little pains to hide. “Well, and what wind blows you here, Trenchard?” asked Sir William bluntly. “A wind from France,” replied Harry Trenchard, smiling, inspired perhaps to this unwonted diction by the remembrance of his mission. “Oh, ay!” assented the Squire, after staring at him for a second, “I had forgot you’d been abroad. Admired the ladies of Paris and come to see my new French niece, perhaps?” “Papa!” exclaimed Amelia reprovingly. Sir William laughed gently. “Lucy don’t mind my jokes, I know,” he said, patting her arm. And Lucienne, smiling and sketching a curtsy, said: “Mais non, Monsieur mon oncle.”