And she had so stood for more than an hour of this autumn afternoon; with such pride on his side as was fitting, and such blushes on hers as were fitting also. Now, the prime duty of reception over, and his company dispersed through the gardens, Sir Robert lingered with one or two of his intimates on the lawn before the house. In the hollow of the park hard by, stood the ample marquee in which his poorer neighbours were presently to feed; gossip had it that Sir Robert was already at work rebuilding his political influence. Near the tent, Hunt the Slipper and Kiss in the Ring were in progress, and Moneymusk was being danced to the strains of the Chippinge church band; the shrill voices of the rustic youth proving that their first shyness was wearing off. Within the gardens, a famous band from Bath played the new-fashioned quadrilles turn about with Moore’s Irish Melodies; and a score of the fair, gorgeous as the dragon-flies which darted above the water, meandered delicately up and down the sward; or escorted by gentlemen in tightly strapped white trousers and blue coats—or in Wellington frocks, the latest mode—appeared and again disappeared among the elms beside the Garden Pool. In the background, the house, adorned and refurnished, winked with all its windows at the sunshine, gave forth from all its doors the sweet scent of flowers, throbbed to the very recesses of the haunted wing with small talk and light laughter, the tap of sandalled feet and the flirt of fans. Sir Robert thanked his God as he looked upon it all. And five years younger in face and more like the Duke than ever, he listened, almost purring, to the praises of his new-found darling. The odds had been great that with such a breeding, she had been coarse or sly, common or skittish. And she was none of these things, but fair as a flower, slender as Psyche, sweet-eyed as a loving woman, dainty and virginal as the buds of May! And withal gentle and kind and obedient—above all, obedient. He could not thank God enough, as he read in the eyes of young men and old women, what they thought of her. And he was thanking Him, though in outward seeming he was attentive to an old friend’s prattle, when his eyes fell on a carriage and four which, followed by two outriders, was sweeping past the marquee and breasting the gentle ascent to the house. All who were likely to arrive in such state, the Beauforts, Suffolks, Methuens, were come; the old Duke of Beaufort, indeed, and his daughter-in-law were gone again. So Sir Robert stared at the approaching carriage, wondering whom it might contain. “They are the Bowood liveries,” said his friend, who had longer sight. “I thought they had gone to town for the Coronation.”