This dream or fancy of his was so pleasant that he let it stay with him while he drank three cups of tea, and while Celia rattled on about Hazlehurst and its inhabitants, giving him what she called a social map of the country, which might be useful for his guidance during the week he proposed to spend there. He only roused himself when the church clock chimed the three-quarters, and then he pulled himself out of the basket chair with a jerk, put down his cup and saucer, and wished Laura good-bye. ‘I shall have to do the distance in ten minutes, Miss Clare,’ he said, as he shook hands with that vivacious young lady. ‘I’m afraid I ought to have said ten minutes for a bicycle,’ replied Celia; ‘but the Sampsons won’t mind waiting dinner for you, and I don’t suppose the delay will hurt their dinner.’ ‘It will be nearer for you through the orchard,’ said Laura. So John Treverton went through the orchard, at the end of which there was a gate that opened into a lane leading to the high-road. It was the same lane that skirted the walled fruit-garden, with the little door that John had seen mysteriously opened that winter night. The sight of the little wooden door made him curiously thoughtful. ‘I’ll never believe that there was anything approaching guilt in that mystery,’ he said to himself. ‘No, I have looked into those lovely eyes of hers, and I believe her incapable of an unworthy thought. Some poor relation, I dare say--a scamp whom she would have been ashamed of before the servants, so she received him secretly; doubtless to help him with money.’ * * * * * ‘What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura!’ said Celia, draining the teapot. ‘Why did you never tell me that John Treverton was so perfectly lovely?’ ‘My dear Celia, how am I to know what constitutes your idea of perfect loveliness in a young man? I have heard you praise so many, all distinctly different. I told you that Mr. Treverton was gentlemanlike and good-looking.’ ‘Good-looking!’ cried Celia. ‘He is absolutely perfect. To see him sitting in that chair drinking tea and looking dreamily out of the garden with those exquisite eyes of his! Oh, he is quite too awfully nice. Do you know the colour of his eyes?’ ‘I have not the slightest idea.’ ‘They are a greeny-gray--a colour that changes every minute, a tint between blue and brown; I never saw it before. And his complexion--just that olive paleness which is so positively delightful. His nose is slightly irregular in line, not straight enough to be Grecian, and not curved enough to be aquiline--but his mouth is awfully nice--so firm and resolute-looking, yet lapsing now and then into dreamy thought. Did you see him lapse into dreamy thought, Laura?’ Miss Malcolm blushed indignantly; vexed, no doubt, at such foolishness. ‘Really, Celia, you are too ridiculous. I can’t think how you can indulge in such absurd raptures about a strange man.’