“I don’t want to hear what the woman said,” interrupted Austin, with a gesture of contempt.  “Such people have no right to exist.  They’re not worthy for a man like St Aubyn to tread upon.  It’s a pity you know nothing of him yourself, auntie.  You wouldn’t appreciate your Lotties and your Florries quite so much as you do now, if you did.”

“Then you enjoyed yourself?” returned Aunt Charlotte, waiving the point.  “Oh, I’ve no doubt he’s an agreeable person in his way.  And the gardens are quite pretty, I’m told.  Hasn’t he got a few rather nice pictures in his rooms?  I’m very fond of pictures myself.  Well, now, tell me all about it.  How did you amuse yourself all the afternoon, and what did you talk to him about?”

But before Austin could frame a fitting answer the butcher’s boy looked over the gate to tell them that the rabid dog had been found in the lane and killed.

Chapter the Fifth

It will readily be understood that Austin was in no hurry to confide anything about his experiences in the Banqueting Hall to his Aunt Charlotte.  The way in which she had received his straightforward, simple account of the curious impressions which had determined his choice of a route in coming home was enough, and more than enough, to seal his tongue.  He was sensitive in the extreme, and any lack of sympathy or comprehension made him retire immediately into his shell.  His aunt’s demeanour imparted an air of reserve even to the description he gave her of the attractions of Moorcombe Court.  Perhaps the good lady was a trifle sore at never having been invited there herself.  One never knows.  At any rate, her attitude was chilling.  So as regarded the incident in the Banqueting Hall he preserved entire silence.  Her scepticism was too complacent to be attacked.

He was aroused next morning by the sweetest of country sounds—­the sound of a scythe upon the lawn.  Then there came the distant call of the street flower-seller, “All a-growing, all a-blowing,” which he remembered as long as he could remember anything.  The world was waking up, but it was yet early—­not more than half-past six at the very latest.  So he lay quietly and contentedly in his white bed, lazily wondering how it would feel in the Banqueting Hall at that early hour, and what it would be like there in the dead of night, and how soon it would be proper for him to go and leave a card on Mr St Aubyn, and what Lubin would think of it all, and how it was he had never before noticed that great crack in the ceiling just above his head.  At last he slipped carefully out of bed without waiting for Martha to bring him his hot water, and hopped as best he could to the open window and looked out.  There was Lubin, mowing vigorously away, and the air was full of sweet garden scents and the early twittering of birds.  He could not go back to bed after that, but proceeded forthwith to dress.