This suited the other's views exactly; so, leaving his horse in charge of a man who was loitering about, he walked quietly up to the cottage. The front gate stood open; he walked through a prettily arranged garden, filled with autumnal flowers, to the hall door, and rapped gently. He came, like a good general, to surprise, not storm the capital. A neat-looking girl answered the door. "Is Mr. Tremenhere at home?" inquired the visiter. "No, sir," was the reply. "He will not return till this evening." "Very provoking!" exclaimed he; "I am leaving town, and wished particularly to leave a message, or see him." The girl made no reply; she was not evidently accustomed to see many visiters there. "Could I see any one to leave it with, or write a note?" he asked. "If you would please to step in, sir; I dare say you can write to master," she said, drawing back. Lord Randolph wanted no further invitation. In an instant he was following the girl down the passage. CHAPTER XXIII. The girl threw open a door, and he entered; his heart was not quite free from pulsation. He was not a man of adventure by nature--two or three motives urged him to this one. The room was quietly, but _gracefully_ furnished; the curtains were not of rich damask, neither were there rich bronzes, _ormolu_, or tables to break one's neck over, or shiver to atoms in the fall thereof half a dozen hideous idols, or Chinese cups and saucers--no! it was not a company receiving-room, but the apartment of a refined and domestic mind. The two generally unite, for they emanate from our best mistress--Nature. The curtains and furniture were of pale green chintz. There were a few choice flowers in a vase on the table; one single dahlia, rich in colour, alone, like a queen in state and beauty, in a rich Bohemian glass, on a centre table; and, like attendant courtiers, in various smaller ones, were varied specimens scattered about amidst books, pencils, half-finished bouquets, shewing why they were there--for art to perpetuate nature. There were ottomans, easy-chairs, and ladies' work; in short, home spoke to you in every thing. There was an open piano, and music scattered about; and the tables, piano, even to the frames of the mirrors, were of maple-wood. Another door opened into a small conservatory with stained glass windows--it was, in truth, a little paradise. A cheering fire enlivened the whole--for though a fine day, it was chilly; yet the sun shone without, and in the bright conservatory, where summer seemed still to reign. "You can write a note here, sir, if you please," said the woman, placing materials before him; "and when you have finished it, if you will be good enough to ring the bell, I will return." Thus saying, and not having a fear of those adventurous knights called London thieves before her eyes, she withdrew quietly. Every thing there breathed peace, even the placid servant.