rmous salary!"

"Sounds like an adventurer," grumbled Barton, "probably is."

Tatham broke in. "No, you're wrong there, Colonel. I knew Faversham at
college. He's a very decent fellow--and awfully clever."

Yet, somehow, his praise stuck in his throat.

"Well, of course," said Andover with a shrug, "if he _is_ a decent
fellow, as Tatham says, he won't stay long. Do you imagine Melrose is
going to change his spots?--not he!"

"Somebody must really go and talk to this chap," said Barton gloomily. "I
believe Melrose will lose us the next election up here. You really can't
expect people to vote for Tories, if Tories are that sort."

The talk flowed on. But Tatham had ceased to listen. For some little time
there had been no voices or steps in the garden outside. They had melted
into the wood beyond. But now they had returned. He perceived a white
figure against a distant background of clipped yew.

Rising joyously he threw down his cigarette.

"Shall we join the ladies?"

"I say, you've had a dose of Delorme."

For he had found her still with the painter, who as soon as Tatham
appeared had subsided languidly into allowing Lady Barbara to talk to
him.

"Oh! but so amusing!" cried Lydia, her face twinkling. "We've picked all
the Academy to pieces and danced on their bones."

"Has he asked you to sit to him?"

Lydia hesitated, and in the soft light he saw her flush.

"He said something. Of course it would be a great, great honour!"

"An honour to him," said Tatham hotly.

"I'm afraid you don't know how to respect great men!" she said laughing,
as they drew out of the shadow of the Italian garden with its clipped
yews and cypresses, and reached a broad terrace whence the undulations of
the park stretched westward and upward into the purple fissures and
clefts of the mountains. Trees, fells, grass were steeped in a wan, gold
light, a mingling of sunset and moonrise. The sky was clear; the
gradations of colour on the hills ethereally distinct. From a clump of
trees came a soft hooting of owls; and close behind them a tall hedge of
roses red and white made a bower for Lydia's light form, and filled the
night with perfume.

"What do great men matter?" said Tatham incoherently as they paused;
"what does anything matter--but--_Lydia!_"

It was a cry of pain. A hand groped for hers. Lydia startled, looked up
to see the face of Tatham looking down upon her through the warm
dusk--transfigured.

"You'll let me spea