He went closer; he bent over them and drank in their sweet scent. And as he did it the old, sunny garden rose before him again. The little twisting paths, the roses so thick and luxuriant that they trespassed forward from their beds; the old broken fountain, with the water nymph bending eternally in graceful readiness to dive, and amongst them--the roses, the sunshine, the queer paths, and the old fountain--the little mistress of them all, slim, childish, with soft dark eyes, with pretty lips made for laughter, with the sun caught in the waves of her brown hair. His hands wandered gently over the roses as he stood and thought what a gracious little hostess she was! How sweetly she had welcomed him, asking no questions! A wave of colour surged over his white face. But he smiled as he sank down on to a chair. His entry into the sweet, old-world garden had been supremely ridiculous. Moreover, he was terribly ashamed of himself as well as rueful. But his sense of humour was strong enough to save either feeling from overpowering him. His arm began to pain him badly again. He shut his lips tightly and sat still. Outside he heard a gay young voice. "It is a pity, Jeannette, that the sun does not shine into his room now. See how glorious is its setting to-night." A pause. Hugh Michelhurst guessed how the pause was filled by his little hostess's mocking answer: "Why, Jeannette, how cross you are! And, anyway, in the morning the sun will wake him." "It may rain, mamzelle." "Rain?" with a little burst of prettiest laughter. "Why, where are your eyes, Jeannette? Rain? With that sky--that sunset? All, no! Even _ma tante_ would not say that, and she always predicts rain, you know." "It is her rheumatism, mamzelle; she feels it in her bones." "Yes," carelessly. "Jeannette, he will need assistance--how careless I am! It is that I am so unused to entertaining a guest, and yet once Ancelles was noted for its hospitality----" The pretty voice died away into the distance, and a few minutes later there was a discreet tap at the stranger's door, and the faded old manservant appeared, and, with an air, offered monsieur his humble services. * * * * * Two mornings had Stéphanie's prophecy been fulfilled. Two mornings the sun had wakened her guest, and now he was wondering if he dared stay and let it wake him a third. "Madame ma tante" had put in an appearance once. She had welcomed the stranger with a stiff yet courteous stateliness that was as old-worldly as the garden and the château and everything pertaining thereto. She was a confirmed invalid, and, till she sallied forth to welcome her niece's guest (Ancelles belonged to Stéphanie), had not left her room for nearly two years. Hugh Michelhurst was duly presented, and made a favourable impression on "Madame ma tante." In half an hour the impression had faded. In an hour it was gone. "Madame ma tante" had forgotten his existence.