Lavinia turns to go, thinking her task ended, and relieved that it is over. But another awaits her. “Stop!” says Sir George. “Why are you in such a hurry to run away? I have not half done with you yet.” There is great kindness, and the unwonted pleasure of being conscious that he is about to give pleasure in his voice, and in the gesture with which he draws towards him and opens one after another half a dozen obviously not new jewel-cases. “They have not seen the light for nearly twenty years,” he says, passing his hand with a movement that is almost a caress over the faded velvet of one of them. “I suppose the settings are old-fashioned, but I believe the stones are good; I know that the pearls are. Garrard took five years collecting them one by one! The--the person who last wore them was very proud of them.” It is the nearest approach Sir George has ever made towards mentioning his departed wife to Lavinia, and she listens in reverent silence. He has taken the string of pearls from its long-occupied bed, and, holding it between his fingers, eyes it pensively. Then, stretching hand and necklace out to her, he says, in a voice of command, whose harshness is the cover for an emotion that it angers him should have escaped from its two decades of prison in his heart-- “Put it on! Wear it always!” She obeys; but her fingers, usually quick and clever, fumble over the diamond clasp. “I would not give it you till I was quite sure we had really got hold of you!” continues Sir George, regarding with evident satisfaction the jewels--a little discoloured and damaged by their long incarceration, but still beautiful, as they circle his niece’s throat. “Until lately I have had my doubts, but I have been watching. I often notice things, more than you think”--with a shrewd look--“I saw how out of spirits you were in Rupert’s absence, and how you brightened up when he returned, and I said to myself, ‘It is all right.’ So don’t say anything more”--almost pushing her to the door, in obvious dread and yet expectation of the tide of her thanks that must wash over him--“but take them with you, and be off!” “Am I to say _nothing_?” she stammers. “Nothing! Actions speak louder than words! Marry Rupert, and give me a grandson as quick as you can!” CHAPTER X “Les joies ne sont que les afflictions en robe de fête.” The kitchen-garden spreads itself out to the sun like a dog stretched basking before the fire. Upward it slopes; its ripe red walls, its espaliers, and wine-coloured and yellow spring flowers running up the hill; house and stables, church tower, and promise-making trees, at its foot, and with an apple-orchard, and a smaller cherry one, as a crown for its head. The apple-orchard represents, as yet, only promise too; but the hurrying cherry blossom spells performance.