He stretched out his hand for one, and sinking into a low basket chair, commenced lazily to peel it, with his eyes wandering over the sunny landscape. A footman brought out the tea equipage and some silver-covered dishes, and, after silently arranging them upon the table, withdrew. "What an exquisite morning!" Mr. Thurwell remarked, looking up at the blue cloudless sky, and pulling his cap a little closer over his eyes to protect them from the sun. "We might be in Italy again." "Indeed we might," she answered. "I am going to imagine that we are, and make my breakfast of peaches and cream and chocolate! Shall I give you some?" He shook his head, with a little grimace. "No, thanks. I'm Philistine enough to prefer devilled kidneys and tea. I wonder if there is anything in the letters." He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, and, unlocking the bag, shook its contents upon the tablecloth. His daughter looked at the pile with a faint show of interest. There were one or two invitations, which he tossed over to her, a few business letters, which he put on one side for more leisurely perusal later on, and a little packet from his agent which he opened at once, and the contents of which brought a slight frown into his handsome face. Helen Thurwell glanced through her share without finding anything interesting. Tennis parties, archery meetings, a bazaar fete; absolutely nothing fresh. She was so tired of all that sort of thing--tired of eternally meeting the same little set of people, and joining in the same round of so-called amusements. There was nothing in Northshire society which attracted her. It was all very stupid, and she was very much bored. "Some news here that will interest you, Helen," her father remarked suddenly. "Who do you think is coming home?" She shook her head. She was not in the least curious. "I don't remember any one going away lately," she remarked. "How warm it is!" "Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is coming back." After all, she was a little interested. She looked away from the sunny gardens and into her father's face. "Really!" "It is a fact!" he declared. "Douglas says that he will be here to-day or to-morrow. Let me see, it must be nearly fifteen years since he was in England. Time he settled down, if he means to at all." "Was he very wild, then?" she asked. The squire nodded. "Rather!" he answered dryly. "I dare say people will have forgotten all about it by now, though. Forty thousand a year covers a multitude of sins, especially in a tenth baronet!" She asked no more questions, but leaned back in her chair, and looked thoughtfully across the open country towards the grey turrets of Kynaston Towers, from which a flag was flying. Mr. Thurwell re-read his agent's letter with a slight frown upon his forehead. "I don't know what to do here," he remarked.