A short brisk walk up the neglected avenue brought Fuller into the wide open space wherein was placed the great mansion. Some portions of the original monastery remained, but during hundreds of years it had been so altered that the monks would have had some difficulty in recognizing their former habitation. Parts of the building had been pulled down and other parts built up, that had been altered and this had been permitted to remain in its original state, so that the old house presented an incongruous appearance which could be ascribed to no particular epoch of architecture. With its walls of grey flint, brown stone, red brick, and here and there blocks of white marble somewhat soiled by wind and rain and sunshine, it looked singularly picturesque. And the whole was overgrown with ivy, dank and green and wonderfully luxuriant, since it was never trimmed and never cut. The big building looked as though it were bound to the soil by the tough tendrils and what with the rank coarse grasses and the trees which grew right up to the walls, it might have been part and parcel of the earth itself, so swathed was it in greenery. There was something noble and austere about the dwelling befitting perhaps the Benedictines who had dwelt in it at one time, but it looked altogether too sombre and unwholesome to shelter the fair head of Marie Inderwick, who was all smiles and sunshine. And as Alan advanced towards the huge porch which was supported on twisted pillars, she unexpectedly made her appearance like a gleam of light shooting across a thunderous sky. It was Alan the lover, and not Fuller the lawyer, who made this poetic comparison. “Darling! darling!” cried Marie, running down the broken steps with outstretched hands. “I knew you would come. But how late you are! I saw you in the church this morning, and have been expecting you all the afternoon. It is now three o’clock and only at this moment do you put in an appearance. No, I won’t be kissed. Uncle may be at the window and would make trouble, as he always does. Besides you don’t deserve a kiss, when you neglect me so.” “I shall take one for all that,” said Alan, suiting the action to the word, “and in spite of possible dragon eyes at the window.” “But your neglect,” pouted Marie, playing with his necktie, arranging it and rearranging it after the manner of women whose fingers must always be busy. “Dearest, I stayed for the midday communion, and when I came out you had gone home with your uncle.” “He hurried me away, Alan. He’s always very particular to keep an eye on me when you come down.” “Undoubtedly. He wants you to marry a title.” Marie shrugged her shoulders in a French fashion which she had acquired from a Parisian school friend at the Brighton seminary. “As if anyone would marry a pauper like me.’ “I think any man who has an eye for the beautiful would only be too glad to marry such a lovely pauper.” “That’s nice. Say it again and slowly.”