The men were already settling down. They met at breakfast, and thereafter Tressor departed to his study and was no more seen till lunch. Manning and Paul, however, gaily wasted half a morning. They smoked a pipe in the gardens, and picked up the newspapers in the lounge hall on their way to work afterwards, Paul usually reading or glancing through anything he had done the day before. In the afternoon, they rode or motored or walked, found tea waiting them on their return, and separated for a couple of hours' more serious going before the dressing bell. In the evening things seemed to fall out with easy content, though Tressor would withdraw to his study again as often as not. It was all rather leisured and easy. Expressed in colour, Paul thought of Claxted as having none; of Thurloe End as black and white and scarlet; of Fordham as blue and old gold within and brown and green without. As for duties, as yet he had none worth the mention. Old Mrs. Bird, the housekeeper, and he, already loved each other. It was obvious that she proposed to take charge of him. Rider, who combined the functions of valet and butler and chauffeur, had instructions to take Paul over when Tressor was away, and seemed gravely imperturbed. Timothy, the head gardener and an institution, appeared actually prepared to teach him a little; and as for the gamekeeper, who lived at the lodge, he talked dogs and horses with Manning by the hour, and accepted Paul because he could listen with grave attention. In a word, the establishment was plainly ready to accept him, and he was, as he should have been, profoundly grateful. It was thus, then, after a morning stroll, while Manning was perfunctorily looking through _The Times_, that Paul broached the agnosticism of Ursula. The ladies had dined at the Manor the previous evening, and she had sung. Paul had had no conversation out of the ordinary with her, and yet once again the strength of her personality had impressed him. So now, as he stood by the carved and decorated mantelpiece and looked out through the open window to the sunny garden, sniffing the fragrant scent of herbs and box that wafted in, the girl was vividly in his mind. "Arnold," he said. "Yes? What's up now?" "I say, I like your cousin." Manning folded the paper carelessly and tossed it aside, feeling for his tobacco pouch. "I'm sure I'm very pleased," he said. "Don't rag. She worries me." "I thought you said you liked her." "So I do, but it is exactly that that worries me. She's an atheist." "True. It runs in the family in this generation. A reaction perhaps. Her father was a churchwarden, and her mother likes the vicar to call once a month." Paul shifted uneasily. "It isn't a subject for joking to me," he said. "You know that, very well you know it. I may be in difficulties, but I believe in God with all my heart." Manning leaned back easily in his chair and lit his pipe. "You think you do," he said, between the puffs.