Arthur Arden was punctual to his appointment: he had thought of little else since he left Arden the day before. To do him justice, Clare’s society, the power of approaching her as he would, was very sweet to him, especially after a severe course of croquet at the Red House, and a few days with the Pimpernels. In short, he was able to disguise to himself his other motive altogether, and to forget he had any clandestine object. “I am going to look over some old family papers with my cousin,” he had said to Mrs. Pimpernel, who, for her part, had not much liked the information. “If he is going to make a cat’s-paw of us, and spend all his time running after that proud stuck-up thing!” she said to her husband. “Our Alice is worth two of her any day; and I don’t hold with your family papers.” “We haven’t got any, have we?” said Mr. Pimpernel; “but you wait a bit, Mary; I know what the family papers mean.” “I hope you do, Mr. Pimpernel,” said his wife, with evident scepticism. And she did not like it when Arthur Arden, instead of joining Alice at her croquet, or attending herself upon her drive, went off again after luncheon to visit his cousin. “If that is the way of it, I don’t see the good of having a gentleman in the house,” she said to Alice. “But then there is Mr. Denbigh, mamma,” said Alice, innocently, for which her mother could have boxed her ears. And Arthur turned his back upon them and their croquet ground with the intensest satisfaction. It was very heavy work. He had been in a great many country houses, and he had occasionally felt that in his position as a man without any particular means or advantages, a good deal of exertion had been required from him in payment for the hospitality he received. He had seen the justice of it, and in a general way he had not made much objection. But then these were houses full of people where, if a man made himself generally useful, every necessity of the circumstances was satisfied, and he was not compelled to devote himself specially to stupid or wearisome individuals. He had the sweet along with the bitter, and he had not complained. But to be told off for Mrs. Pimpernel’s personal service or for croquet was a different matter, and he turned his back upon them with a light heart. And when the door of the old hereditary house opened to him, and Clare, like one of the pictures from the walls, rose with a little tremulous expectation, holding out her hand, the difference was such that it confused his mind altogether, and made him conscious of nothing but intense relief. Look over family papers! oh, yes; or mow the lawn, if she liked, or work in the garden. He said to himself that the one pretext would be just as good as the other. It was a pretext, not any intended treachery, but only a means of being near Clare.