Godfrey heard no more of Guy's midnight adventure during the remaining three days of the visit. The time passed pleasantly, and the aged vicar of the parish and one or two of the neighbouring gentlemen called formally on "Mr Waynflete." The recognition pleased Guy, or at least that part of him which was free to care about it. He had very little to say to his aunt when they came back about Waynflete, speaking of it in a satirical, rather contemptuous fashion, which annoyed her very much; while Godfrey described it fully, though he staunchly declared that he liked Ingleby best. Shortly afterwards Guy had a sharp attack of illness. He had never been quite so strong as his brother, and he did not recover from its effects for some time. Mrs Waynflete had little patience with any ailment less definite than the measles, and thought him fanciful and self-indulgent. She was also much put out by Mrs John Palmer's complaints of odd and unaccountable noises at Waynflete, which upset her nerves and frightened her servants. But for these, she would have liked to take the house again next summer, as the air suited her, and she was glad to be near her husband's family. As it was, she did not feel able to settle down comfortably. Mrs Waynflete thought Constance Palmer would have had more sense. She let Waynflete Hall to a working farmer, with directions to look after the house carefully, and keep it dry. Nothing more was heard of mysterious noises, and Guy and Godfrey did not see the place again for nearly five years, when the farmer's tenancy had come to an end. PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR. HEREDITARY FOES. "Very few people appreciate the feeling of a place. Hardly any one can feel the London atmosphere," said Constancy Vyner, one Sunday afternoon nearly five years after the events last recorded, as she sat drinking tea on a balcony in a square on the London side of Kensington. "I shouldn't have thought our atmosphere so ethereal as to be imperceptible to any one," said a young man who formed one of the party. "That's a most obvious remark, Mr Staunton; but I didn't mean fogs. I don't believe the country ever gives one just such a feel of summer as there is now. Hot air, balcony-flowers, rustling brown trees, they're drier and more papery than country ones; sunny dust, dusty sun, and people, pavements, and omnibuses, and undergrounds--and smart fashionable clothes. It's so summery! Nobody's got the idea exactly," she said. "Of course Dickens has a London feel; but that's on another level, ghastly and squalid--or best parlour and hot-buttered toast; nor does it quite belong to the swells, though it has fashion and the season in it, too." "Your idea is coming?" said Mr Staunton, watching her curiously.