ret to be placed in the hall for her Ladyship, my
Lord," said he, in explanation of his action.

Soup and claret might mean anything--peace or war--going or
staying--anything except sitting down to table with him. On the whole
their omen was not encouraging. A sudden thought shot across his brain:
"By Jove, if she's taken my cab!" He jumped up; but in a moment sat down
again. The _coup_ would be a good one, but it would not beat him. He
would walk to Mingham and get a bed there. He was quite clear that he
would not sleep alone at Blent. He glanced at the clock again; to catch
the train at Fillingford she must start at ten--and so with him. Stay
though, she might go to Merrion. Mina would give her shelter.

She had looked very beautiful. Oh, yes, yes! Harry smiled as he conceded
the natural man that point. It was seen plainly in retrospect; he had
not noticed it much at the time. He had been too much occupied in
proving her a curmudgeon. One thing at a time was the Tristram
way--provided the time were reasonably short. But he felt it now, and
began to wonder if he had said too much. He decided that he had not
said a word too much.

At last he got up very deliberately and went into the hall. It was a
quarter to ten; the soup and the claret were there. Harry stood looking
at them a moment, but they could not answer his question. With an
impatient shrug of his shoulders he walked out into the garden. And
there his first thought was not of Cecily.

It was of Blent, Blent his own again, come back to him enriched by the
experience of its loss, now no more all his life, but the background of
that new life he had begun to make for himself. He was no longer puffed
up by the possession of it--the new experiences had taught him a lesson
there--but he was infinitely satisfied. Blent for his own, in his own
way, on his own terms--that was what he wanted. See how fair it was in
the still night! He was glad and exultant that it was his again. Was he
too a curmudgeon then? Harry did not perceive how any reasonable person
could say such a thing. A man may value what is his own without being a
miser or a churl.

Nobody was to be seen in the garden--not Neeld, not Mina, nor Cecily. In
surprise he walked the length and breadth of it without finding any of
them. He went on to the bridge and peered about, and then on to the
road; he looked even in the river in a curiosity that forgot the
impossible. He was alone. With a quick step he cam