The lunch, although shorn of yesterday’s splendour, proved excellent; the wine first-class, the appointments, furniture, and old portraits, intimated that the Fenchurch family had handsome ancestors of taste and fortune. The topics discussed were chiefly hunting, the local pack and followers, other packs, and Mr. Blagdon, a hard rider (who, when he could not get over a country, went _through_ it), gave vivid descriptions of runs with the Pytchley, and the Quorn. After cigars and coffee the guest was conducted with much pomp and ceremony to inspect the chrysanthemums. Unfortunately the celebrated Holt gardens were now looking their worst; these were lovely in spring and summer, but at present, all the blooms were in the greenhouses, where, although not specially remarkable, the Japanese specimens made a respectable show. Personally Blagdon knew as little of a chrysanthemum as he did of a cauliflower--but he assumed a knowledge he did not possess; in his own bluff fashion he made himself agreeable to his hostess, and she (an able chaperon) arranged that he and Letty should have a few moments in the conservatory alone, whilst she ‘ran’ to give an important message to the head-gardener. Alas, of these precious moments the great _parti_ failed to avail himself. It was a bitterly cold, raw day, Letty had been all the morning indoors assisting to wash the china (and her aunt had been unusually snappy and unreasonable), the walk across the lawn had given her beautiful nose a tinge of pink, the girl’s gown was a shapeless, ill-made blue serge; her shoes were worn white at the toes, and she hadn’t a word to throw to a dog! The aunt did all the talking. If Hugo Blagdon had cherished any intention of taking the irrevocable step, this intention now died the death. He was sensitive and easily influenced by his environment, and the impression made on him by Miss Glyn at home, was distinctly the reverse of that made by Miss Glyn abroad. There, she was a well-dressed radiant beauty; here, a poor, shabby Cinderella, with timid eyes, and cold, red hands. After a depressing round of the damp, wintry gardens, and a brief stay in the charming drawing-room, full of old cabinets, pastel portraits, Chippendale furniture, and other treasures, Mr. Blagdon offered a few vague and agreeable remarks, and begged leave to order his carriage.