Mrs. Lakeman, with Lena beside her, sat on the front seat, Dawson Farley facing them. "I never believe in treating these people carelessly," she remarked, as she fidgeted with her lace handkerchief--it was scented with violets--and held back her lace parasol as they drove in at the gates. Then she was almost startled. "What a lovely place!" she exclaimed. "Look at that porch, and those old windows. Gerald's not such a fool, after all! And a Dutch garden, too--why, I could live and die here myself!" "I don't think so," Mr. Farley said, cynically. "It's just what I thought it would be," Lena cooed. "I felt sure that Margaret lived in the midst of flowers." They had stopped by the porch. The front door was open, but not a soul was visible. "You must get down and ring the bell, Dawson," Mrs. Lakeman said, a little puzzled, as if she had expected the inhabitants of the house to run out and greet her. Then suddenly Towsey appeared. Margaret's hint had evidently taken effect, for she wore the black dress that she usually kept for Sundays, and a white apron that met behind her generous waist. Above the porch, from the window seat of her own room, Margaret, listening and watching, heard Mrs. Lakeman ask, in a clear voice that always seemed to have a note of derision in it: "Is Mrs. Gerald Vincent at home?" "You are to come in," said Towsey, brusquely. Mrs. Lakeman trailed into the living-room, followed by Lena and Mr. Farley. She looked at the great fireplace piled with logs and bracken, at the old-fashioned chair on either side, at the oak table in the middle, and the chest against the wall, then back at the porch and the glorious view beyond it. Within, all was dim and cool and still; without, summer was at its highest and nature holding carnival. Impressionable and quick to succumb to influences, she was charmed. "I call this the perfection of peace and simplicity," she exclaimed, as they stood in a group waiting. A door on the left opened, a tall figure appeared and hesitated. Mrs. Lakeman went forward with emotion, just as she had done to Gerald, but there was a shade of fine patronage in her manner this time. "It must be Mrs. Vincent--dear Gerald's wife," she said. Mrs. Vincent looked at her visitor with calm wonderment. "Yes," she said, simply. "I suppose you are a friend of his? Margaret thought you might come." "I am Hilda Lakeman. You have heard of me, of course." Mrs. Lakeman's lips twisted with her odd smile. "You can imagine that I wanted to see you. I made a point of coming at once. We are staying at Sir George Stringer's till Monday." "Perhaps you will come in," Mrs. Vincent said, a little awkwardly. Mrs. Lakeman followed her into the best parlor, and looked round it with surprise. The room was perfect in its way. She had pictured something more comfortless.