[Illustration:  “And what happier company for her than her thoughts—­what tenderer companionship than her memories?”]

She had told him not to attempt to come to Estwich; and, though she knew she had told him wisely, often and often there on her breezy hilltop she wished that she hadn’t—­wished that he would disregard her request—­hoped he would—­lay there, a dry grass stem between her lips, thinking how it would be if, suddenly, down there by—­well, say down by that big oak, for example, a figure should stroll into view along the sheep-path....  And at first—­just to prolong the tension—­perhaps she wouldn’t recognise him—­just for a moment.  Then, suddenly—­

But she never got beyond that first blissful instant of recognition—­the expression of his face—­his quick spring forward—­and she, amazed, rising to her feet and hastening forward to meet him.  For she never pictured herself as standing still to await the man she loved.

When Helene left, Valerie had the place to herself; and, without any disloyalty to the little countess, she experienced a new pleasure in the liberty of an indolence which exacted nothing of her.

She prowled around the library, luxuriously, dipping into inviting volumes; she strolled at hazard from veranda to garden, from garden to lawn, from lawn to farmyard.

About luncheon time she arrived at the house with her arms full of scented peonies, and spent a long while selecting the receptacles for them.

Luncheon was a deliciously lazy affair at which she felt at liberty to take her own time; and she did so, scanning the morning paper, which had just been delivered; making several bites of every cherry and strawberry, and being good to the three cats with asparagus ends and a saucer of chicken bouillon.

Later, reclining in the hammock, she mended a pair of brier-torn stockings; and when that thrifty and praiseworthy task was finished, she lay back and thought of Neville.

[Illustration:  “She prowled around the library, luxuriously, dipping into inviting volumes”]

But at what moment in any day was she ever entirely unconscious of him?  Besides, she could always think of him better—­summon him nearer—­visualise him more clearly, when she was afield, the blue sky above her, the green earth under foot, and companioned only by memory.

So she went to her room, put on her stout little shoes and her walking skirt; braided her hair and made of it a soft, light, lustrous turban; and taking her dog-whip, ran down stairs.

The fat old collie came wagging up to the whistle, capered clumsily as in duty bound; but before she had entirely traversed the chestnut woods he basely deserted her and waddled back to the kitchen door where a thoughtful cook and a succulent bone were combinations not unknown.

Valerie missed him presently, and whistled; but the fat sybarite, if within earshot, paid no attention; and she was left to swing her dog-whip and stroll on alone.