Breakfast over, Mr. Chattaway went out. Cris went out. Rupert, as the day grew warm and bright, strolled into the garden, and basked on a bench in the sun. He very much enjoyed these days of idleness. To sit as he was doing now, feeling that no exertion whatever was required of him; that he might stay where he was for the whole day, and gaze up at the blue sky as he fell into thought; or watch the light fleecy clouds that rose above the horizon, and form them into fantastic pictures--constituted one of the pleasures of Rupert Trevlyn's life. Not for the bright blue of the sky, the ever-changing clouds, the warm sunshine and balmy air--not for all these did he care so much as for the _rest_. The delightful consciousness that he might be as quiet as he pleased; that no Blackstone or any other far-off place would demand him; that for a whole day he might be at _rest_--there lay the charm. Nothing could possibly have been more suggestive of his want of strength--as anyone might have guessed possessed of sufficient penetration. No. Mr. Chattaway need not have feared that Rupert was hatching plots against him, whenever he was out of his sight. Had poor Rupert possessed the desire, he lacked the energy. The dinner hour at Trevlyn Hold, nominally early, was frequently regulated by the will or movements of the master. When he said he could only be home at a given hour--three, four, five, six, as the case might be--the cook had her orders accordingly. To-day it was fixed for four o'clock. At two (the more ordinary dinner hour) Cris came in. Strictly speaking, it was ten minutes past two, and Cris burst into the dining-room with a heated face, afraid lest he should come in for the end of the meal. Whatever might be the hour fixed, dinner had to be on the table to the minute; and it generally was so. Miss Diana was an exacting mistress. Cris burst in, hair untidy, hands unwashed, desperately afraid of losing his share. He drew a long face. Not a soul was in the room, and the dining-table showed its bright mahogany. Cris rang the bell. "What time do we dine to-day?" he asked sharply of the servant who answered it. "At four, sir." "What a nuisance! And I am as hungry as a hunter. Get me something to eat. Here--stop--where are they all?" "Madam's at home, sir; and I think Miss Octave's at home. The rest are out." Cris muttered something which was not heard, which perhaps he did not intend should be heard; and when his luncheon was brought in, he sat down to it with great satisfaction. After he had finished, he went to the stables, and by-and-by came in to find his sister. "Octave, I want to take you for a drive. Will you go?" The unwonted attention on her brother's part quite astonished Octave. Before now she had asked him to drive her out, and been met with a rough refusal. Cris was of that class of young men who see no good in overpowering their sisters with attention. "Get your things on at once," said Cris.