They returned to the garden by a different arch; they visited the hot-houses, where the rose-hued azaleas and camellias made pyramids of vivid colour; they glanced at the kitchen garden with its asparagus-beds and narrow box-edged borders, its all-pervading odour of sweet herbs and wallflowers. ‘I am positively expiring for want of a cup of tea,’ cried Celia. ‘Didn’t you hear the church clock strike five, Laura?’ John remembered the six o’clock dinner at The Laurels. ‘I really think I must deny myself that cup of tea,’ he said. ‘The Sampsons dine at six.’ ‘What of that?’ exclaimed Celia, who never would let a man out of her clutches till stern necessity snatched him from her. ‘It is not above ten minutes’ walk from here to The Laurels.’ ‘What an excellent walker you must be, Miss Clare. Well, I’ll hazard everything for that cup of tea.’ They went into a pretty room, opening out of the garden, a room with two long windows wreathed round with passionflower and starry white clematis--the clematis montana, which flowers in spring. It was not large enough for a library, so it was called the book-room, and was lined from floor to ceiling with books--a great many of which had been collected by Laura. It was quite a lady’s collection. There were all the modern poets, from Scott and Byron downwards, a good many French and German books--Macaulay, De Quincey, Lamartine, Victor Hugo--a good deal of history and belles-lettres, but no politics, no science, no travels. The room was the essence of snugness--flowers on mantelpiece and tables, basket-work easy chairs, cushions adorned with crewel-work, delightful little tables (after Chippendale), and on one of the tables a scarlet Japanese tea-tray, with the quaintest of old silver teapots, and cups and saucers in willow-pattern Nankin ware. Laura poured out the tea, while Celia began to devour hot buttered cake, the very look of which suggested dyspepsia; but to some weak minds earth has no more overpowering temptation on a warm spring afternoon than hot buttered cake and strong tea with plenty of cream in it. John Treverton sat in one of the low basket arm-chairs--such chairs as they make in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire--and drank tea as if it were the elixir of life. He had a strange feeling as he sat in that chair by the open window, looking across the beds of tulips, above which the bees were humming noisily--a feeling as if his life were only just beginning; as if he were a child in his cradle, dimly conscious of the dawning of existence; no burdens on mind or conscience; no tie or encumbrance; no engagement of honour or faith; a dead blank behind him; and before him life, happiness, the glory and freshness of earth, love, home, all things which fate reserves for the man born to good luck.