Lord Court turned and kept pace beside her. “I can see walking is a pleasure to you,” he remarked, easily. “I have been watching you, Miss Daw, and have been struck by the very un-English nature of your carriage; you bear yourself like an Andalusian. There is something peculiarly ungraceful in the ordinary Englishwoman’s walk.” “I think high heels have a great deal to answer for,” Margery responded, the color just faintly tinting her cream-white cheeks. “I have been seriously alarmed at the shoes I have seen since I came to town; it must be almost like walking on stilts.” “They are for show, not use,” said the earl, smiling. “What a beautiful sky! It reminds me of the sunsets we used to see at Court Manor. My sister, I dare say, has spoken to you of our old home, Miss Daw?” “Lady Enid is never tired of dwelling on its beauties; she seems to love it so much.” “I have not seen it now for years,” the earl said--and Margery saw a shadow cross his face; “but its memory is very dear. In point of beauty and value it does not compare with either Drake Park or Hohen Castle, both Court possessions; to me, however, it is far more beautiful.” He paused, then said, abruptly, “Miss Daw, do you think it would make Enid happier if she returned to the manor for a while?” “Yes,” Margery answered, simply; “I am sure of it. She is so good, so sweet, that she never complains; but I know she is pining for a glimpse of the country, and I think she would grow stronger out of London--she has been in town so long.” “What a selfish brute I have been!” muttered the earl to himself. “Poor child--poor Enid! Thank you, Miss Daw,” he added, quickly. “I will speak to her at once, and make arrangements to start whenever she likes. But you--you do not object to leave London?” “I?” questioned the girl. “No, Lord Court, I have no objection; it matters little to me where I am.” He cast a quick, earnest glance at her. “You are young to say that.” Margery flushed; she had spoken unreflectingly, and she regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. “And wrong,” she said, with forced lightness. “I shall enjoy the change; and anything that makes Lady Enid happy is a great pleasure to me.” Lord Court was silent, but he read her assumed manner rightly. He knew Margery’s history well; still, he felt instinctively it was not her orphan state alone that had caused such a remark. Margery was unaware of his covert glances; she picked two or three leaves from the trees as she passed and arranged them in a cluster with an artistic touch. “You are an artist, Miss Daw,” the earl observed, as they approached the gates. “I paint a little, but only flowers,” she returned. “I used the brush a few years ago,” Lord Court said, “but I do nothing now, and, with the exception of a few Egyptian sketches, I have no drawings of my travels.” He opened the gate as he spoke; then, suddenly meeting the full gaze of her wondrous eyes, he said, almost involuntarily: