Angela ushered mademoiselle to the pretty summer-parlour, looking out upon a geometrical arrangement of flower-beds in the Dutch manner. Chocolate and other light refreshments were being prepared for the travellers; but Henrietta’s impatience would wait for nothing. “I have not driven along these detestable roads to taste your chocolate,” she protested. “I have a world to say to you: en attendant, mademoiselle, you will consider everything at your disposal in the house of my grandfather, jusqu’à deux heures.” She sank almost to the ground in a Whitehall curtsy, rose swift as an arrow, tucked her arm through Angela’s, and pulled her out of the room, paying no attention to the governess’s voluble injunctions not to expose her complexion to the sun, or to sit in a cold wind, or to spoil her gown. “What a shabby old place it is!” she said, looking critically round her as they went through the gardens. “I’m afraid you must perish with _ennui_ here, with so few servants and no company to speak of. Yes”—contemplating her shrewdly, as they seated themselves in a stone temple at the end of the bowling-green—“you are looking moped and ill. This valley air does not agree with you. Well, you can have a much finer place whenever you choose. A better house and garden, ever so much nearer Chilton. And you will choose, won’t you, dearest?” nestling close to her, after throwing off the big hat which made such loving contact impossible. “I don’t understand you, Henriette.” “If you call me Henriette I shall be sure you are angry with me.” “No, love, not angry, but surprised.” “You think I have no right to talk of your sweetheart, because I am only thirteen—and have scarce left off playing with babies—I have hated them for ages, only people persist in giving me the foolish puppets. I know more of the world than you do, auntie, after being shut in a Convent the best part of your life. Why are you so obstinate, ma chérie, in refusing a gentleman we all like?” “Do you mean Sir Denzil?” “Sans doute. Have you a crowd of servants?” “No, child, only this one. But don’t you see that other people’s liking has less to do with the question than mine? And if I do not like him well enough to be his wife——” “But you ought to like him. You know how long her ladyship’s heart has been set on the match; you must have seen what pains she took in London to have Sir Denzil always about you. And now, after a most exemplary patience, after being your faithful servant for over a year, he asks you to be his wife, and you refuse, obstinately refuse. And you would rather mope here with my poor old grandfather—in abject poverty—mother says ‘abject poverty’—than be the honoured mistress of one of the finest seats in Oxfordshire.” “I would rather do what is right and honest, my dearest It is dishonest to marry without love.” “Then half mother’s fine friends must be dishonest, for I dare swear that very few of them love their husbands.”