“It will be a grand stalking horse for your first essay in your constituency,” Cheiron said with his kindly twinkle of sarcasm.  He loved to encourage John Derringham to talk.

But at that moment Demetrius brought the tea and Halcyone gravely began her task.

“Do you take it black like Mr. Carlyon?” she asked of the reclining guest.

He came back to the remembrance of her presence and glancing at her, murmured: 

“Oh—­ah, no—­that is, yes—­strong, only with cream and sugar.  Thanks awfully.”

But Halcyone did not rise to hand it to him, so he was obliged to get up and take it from where she sat.  She perceived then that though extremely thin he was lithe and well-shaped.  And in spite of her unconquered prejudice, she was obliged to own she liked his steely gray hawk-like eyes and his fine, rather ascetic, clean-shaven face.  He did not look at her specially.  He may have taken in a small, pale visage and masses of mouse-colored hair and slender legs—­but nothing struck him particularly except her feet.  As his eyes dropped to the ground he caught sight of them; they were singularly perfect feet.  He admired points in man or beast—­and when he had returned to his old place stretched out under the apple tree, he still glanced at them now and then; they satisfied his eye.

“What have you been doing in these days, Halcyone?” Mr. Carlyon asked.  “I have not seen you since Monday morning.  Have you been getting into any mischief?”

Halcyone reluctantly admitted that she had not.  There was, she explained, very little chance of any of an agreeable kind coming her way at La Sarthe Chase.  She had been gardening with William—­they had quite tidied the top terrace—­and she had been reading French with Aunt Roberta, but the book was great nonsense.

Then she added that she had brought an invitation from the Aunts La Sarthe that Mr. Carlyon’s guest should accompany him when he dined with them on the Saturday.  It had become the custom for him to partake of this repast on the same occasions that Mr. Miller did—­once a month.

John Derringham frowned under his straw hat which he had pulled over his eyes.  He had not come into the country to be dragged out to bucolic dinner parties.  But upon some points he knew his old master was obdurate and from his firm acceptance of the invitation this appeared to be one of them.

Then Halcyone asked politely if he would have a second cup of tea, but he refused and again addressed Cheiron, ignoring her.  Their conversation now ran into philosophical questions, some of them out of her depth, but much of the subject interested her deeply and she listened absorbed.

At last there was a pause and her fresh young voice asked: 

“What, then, is the aim of philosophy—­is it only words, or does it bring any good?”

And both men looked at her, staggered for a moment, and John Derringham burst into a ringing laugh.