So things went on very pleasantly for Mr. Tredethlyn, until one day his eyes were very suddenly opened to a fact that well-nigh overpowered him. He was lounging on the terrace one sunny afternoon, and, for a wonder, Julia Desmond was not by his side. She had been summoned into the midst of a conclave of pretty girls holding solemn discussion with Maude Hillary on the lawn. Francis was looking down at the water, as it was his habit to do, and thinking. He was leaning against the balustrade of the terrace, all amongst the foliage which had been so bright when he had first come to the Cedars, but which was brown and withered now: he was watching the dead leaves slowly drifting in the wind, and dropping one by one into the water; and he was thinking of his cousin Susan. Nothing had yet come of his search for her. Perhaps he had left the matter too much in the hands of his lawyers, trusting to their legal acumen for the unravelment of the tangled skein. It may be that he had been a little too much at the Cedars, absorbed in the delights of a new existence. This afternoon, watching the drifting leaves upon the river, the gold and crimson tints of autumn on the woodland and on the hill-side, Francis Tredethlyn remembered how the time had slipped by him, and how little nearer he was to the discovery of Susan Tredethlyn’s fate than when he had listened to Martha’s story in the dreary Cornish grange, and had sworn to go to the end of the world in search of his cousin. There was some feeling of remorse in his mind as he thought of the past three months, the idle days in that luxurious river-side retreat, the billiard-playing and cigar-smoking, the pleasant rides to and fro in the dewy evenings, with genial gentlemanlike companions, who thought him a good fellow, and very rarely laughed at his ignorant simplicity. He was roused from his reverie now by one of these young men, Mr. Montagu Somerset, of the War-Office, the scion of a noble house, the presumptive heir to nothing a-year, and one of the most hopelessly devoted of Maude Hillary’s adorers. “Why, Tredethlyn,” exclaimed the young man, without removing a gigantic cigar from between his lips, “how dismally you’re staring at that water! It looks as if you were contemplating _felo de se_, b’ Jove. What’s the row, old boy? and how do you happen to be alone? Where’s the _fiancée_?” “I--I was thinking of some family matters, not very pleasant ones,” Mr. Tredethlyn answered, simply. “But where’s the _future_?” “The what?” “The _future_--Mrs. Francis Tredethlyn that is to be--the Desmond. Why, has the lovely Julia deserted her Frank? Why, you dear, simple old baby, how you blush! Is it a crime to be in love with a handsome girl? I only wish your young affections had fixed themselves on one of my five sisters--all most amiable girls, but without so much as a spoonful of what our lively neighbours call _potage_.” Francis Tredethlyn stared aghast at the young official.