Over at Belfield, Sylvia, with the train of her white gown over her arm, was walking daintily through the old-fashioned garden to an arbour, at the end of the main walk, with a rustic table and chairs in it. In good weather she and Skelton passed many hours there. Sylvia was quite alone this afternoon. Her father and mother had gone up the county for a two days’ visit, and left her at home perforce, because she would not go with them. Sylvia was, indeed, completely under Skelton’s spell. His word was law, his presence was everything. She felt acutely disappointed that she would not see him that day, but she would go to the arbour and fondly cheat herself into the belief that he would come. In the old days Sylvia had been a great reader, but under the new dispensation when she read at all she read idly--sweet verses, which were merely an epitome of that greater story of life and love that she was studying for herself. She went into the arbour and sat down, and spread Skelton’s note out upon the little table. What perfect notes he wrote!--brief and to the point, but exquisitely graceful--one of those gallant accomplishments that he excelled in. One round white arm supported her charming head; the other hung down at her side, the hand half open, as if her lover had just dropped it. Sylvia was as pretty a disconsolate picture as could be imagined when Skelton walked into the arbour. She started up, a beautiful rosy blush suddenly dawning. “Here I am, like an old fool,” said Skelton, smiling as he took her hand. “I concluded I couldn’t come, but then the wish to see you was too strong for me. See what a havoc you have made in my middle-aged heart!” “Your heart, at least, is not middle-aged,” answered Sylvia, with a sweet, insinuating smile; “and I wish,” she added with bold mendacity, “that you had some crow’s-feet and grey hairs. I adore crow’s-feet and grey hairs.” “I think you can find some of both to adore,” answered Skelton, with rather a grim smile in return. They were close by the rustic seat, and both of them sat down, Skelton’s arm just touching her rounded shoulder. The air had grown dark, and there was a kind of twilight in the arbour. They seemed as much alone as if they had been in the depths of the woods, instead of in an old-fashioned garden. “I shall have to build you a summerhouse at Deerchase,” said Skelton. “There is a pretty spot in the garden, near the river, where the roses have climbed all over an old latticework left standing since my mother’s time.” “And shall there be a tea table for me?” “Yes, a tea table--” Sylvia knitted her pretty brows. “I don’t know what we shall do about Mr. Bulstrode and the tea table. You and Lewis and I are just company enough, but Mr. Bulstrode will not fit in at all.” Sylvia was quite clever enough to see that Skelton did not intend to have Lewis left out of any scheme of happiness in which he was concerned, and therefore wisely included him.