The Grange expedition to church had to confess to having seen nothing of the Castle party--and in so far it was dubbed a failure. There was indeed a decorous row of servants in the household seat, but the square oaken pew in the chancel, with its brass rods and red curtains in front, and its fireplace at the back, stood empty. The two men reported having met, as they walked home through Scarsmoor, a very large fat man with a face which they described variously, one likening it to the sinking sun on a misty day, the other to a copper saucepan. “Not Lord Lynborough, I do trust!” shuddered little Violet Dufaure. She and Miss Gilletson had driven home by the road, regaining the Grange by the south gate and the main drive. Stillford was by the Marchesa. He spoke to her softly, covered by the general conversation. “You might have told us to take a key!” he said reproachfully. “That gorse is very dangerous to a man’s Sunday clothes.” “It looks--businesslike, doesn’t it?” she smiled. “Oh, uncommon! When did you have it done?” “The day before yesterday. I wanted there to be no mistake from the very first. That’s the best way to prevent any unpleasantness.” “Possibly.” Stillford sounded doubtful. “Going to have a notice-board, Marchesa?” “He will hardly make that necessary, will he?” “Well, I told you that in my judgment your right to shut it against him is very doubtful.” “You told me a lot of things I didn’t understand,” she retorted rather pettishly. He shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. No good lay in anticipating trouble. Lord Lynborough might take no notice. In the afternoon the Marchesa’s guests played golf on a rather makeshift nine-hole course laid out in the meadows. Miss Gilletson slept. The Marchesa herself mounted the top of Sandy Nab, and reviewed her situation. The Colonel would doubtless have liked to accompany her, but he was not thereto invited. Helena Vittoria Maria Antonia, Marchesa di San Servolo, was now in her twenty-fourth year. Born of an Italian father and an English mother, she had bestowed her hand on her paternal country, but her heart remained in her mother’s. The Marchese took her as his second wife and his last pecuniary resource; in both capacities she soothed his declining years. Happily for her--and not unhappily for the world at large--these were few. He had not time to absorb her youth or to spend more than a small portion of her inheritance. She was left a widow--stepmother of adult Italian offspring--owner for life of an Apennine fortress. She liked the fortress much, but disliked the stepchildren (the youngest was of her own age) more. England--her mother’s home--presented itself in the light of a refuge. In short, she had grave doubts about ever returning to Italy.