more especially when it is kept in countenance by a little church of still greater age, nestling under its wing in a manner that recalled the good old days when the lord of the manor was lord of the souls and bodies of his tenants.  Even old Mr. Lane had been mellowed by the influence of his new home, and before his death had come to play the part of Squire far more respectably than might be imagined.  Eugene sustained the role with the graceful indolence and careless efficiency that marked most of his doings.

He stood one Saturday morning in the latter part of July on the steps that led from the terrace to the lawn, holding a letter in his hand and softly whistling.  In appearance he was not, it must be admitted, an ideal Squire, for he was but a trifle above middle height, rather slight, and with the little stoop that tells of the man who is town-bred and by nature more given to indoor than outdoor exercises; but he was a good-looking fellow for all that, with a bright humorous face,—­though at this moment rather a bored one,—­large eyes set well apart, and his proper allowance of brown hair and white teeth.  Altogether, it may safely be said that, not even Sir Roderick’s nose could have sniffed the workhouse in the young master of Millstead Manor.

Still whistling, Eugene descended the steps and approached a group of people sitting under a large copper-beech tree.  A still, hot summer morning does not incline the mind or the body to activity, and all of them had sunk into attitudes of ease.  Mrs. Lane’s work was reposing in her lap; her sister, Miss Jane Chambers, had ceased the pretense of reading; the Rector was enjoying what he kept assuring himself was only just five minutes’ peace before he crossed over to his parsonage and his sermon; Lady Claudia Territon and Miss Katharine Bernard were each in possession of a wicker lounge, while at their feet lay two young men in flannels, with lawn-tennis racquets lying idle by them.  A large jug of beer close to the elbow of one of them completed the luxurious picture that was framed in a light cloud of tobacco smoke, traceable to the person who also was obviously responsible for the beer.

As Eugene approached, a sudden thought seemed to strike him.  He stopped deliberately, and with great care lit a cigar.

“Why wasn’t I smoking, I wonder!” he said.  “The sight of Bob Territon reminded me.”  Then as he reached them, raising his voice, he went on: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt you, and with bad news.”

“What is the matter, dear,” asked Mrs. Lane, a gentle old lady, who having once had the courage to leave the calm of her father’s country vicarage to follow the doubtful fortunes of her husband, was now reaping her reward in a luxury of which she had never dreamed.

“With the arrival of the 4.15 this afternoon,” Eugene continued, “our placid life will be interrupted, and one of Mr. Eugene Lane, M.P.’s, celebrated Saturday to Monday parties (I quote from The Universe) will begin.”