too young and inexperienced.  They wanted to behave in the grand, social, easeful manner of a celebrated public performer and an heiress worth ten million francs.  And they could only succeed in being a boy and a girl.  The chauffeur alone, at from thirty to forty miles an hour, was worthy of himself and his high vocation.  Both the passengers regretted that they had left their beds.  Happily the car laughed at the alleged distance between Frinton and Moze.  In a few minutes, as it seemed, with but one false turning, due to the impetuosity of the chauffeur, the vehicle drew up before the gates of Flank Hall.  Audrey had avoided the village of Moze.  The passengers descended.

“This is my house,” Audrey murmured.

The gates were shut but not locked.  They creaked as Audrey pushed against them.  The drive was covered with a soft film of green, as though it were gradually being entombed in the past.  The young roses, however, belonged emphatically to the present.  Dewdrops hung from them like jewels, and their odour filled the air.  Audrey turned off the main drive towards the garden front of the house, which had always been the aspect that she preferred, and at the same moment she saw the house windows and the thrilling perspective of Mozewater.  One of the windows was open.  She was glad, because this proved that the perfect Aguilar, gardener and caretaker, was after all imperfect.  It was his crusty perfection that had ever set Audrey, and others, against Aguilar.  But he had gone to bed and forgotten a window—­and it was the French window.  While, in her suddenly revived character of a harsh Essex inhabitant, she was thinking of some sarcastic word to say to Aguilar about the window, another window slowly opened from within, and Aguilar’s head became visible.  Once more he had exasperatingly proved his perfection.  He had not gone to bed and forgotten a window.  But he had risen with exemplary earliness to give air to the house.

“‘d mornin’, miss,” mumbled the unsmiling Aguilar, impassively, as though Audrey had never been away from Moze.

“Well, Aguilar.”

“I didn’t expect ye so early, miss.”

“But how could you be expecting me at all?”

“Miss Ingate come home yesterday.  She said you couldn’t be far off, miss.”

“Not Miss ... Mrs.—­Moncreiff,” said Audrey firmly.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” Aguilar responded with absolute imperturbability.  “She never said nothing about that.”

And he proceeded mechanically to the next window.

The yard-dog began to bark.  Audrey, ignoring Musa, went round the shrubbery towards the kennel.  The chained dog continued to bark, furiously, until Audrey was within six feet of him, and then he crouched and squirmed and gave low whines and his tail wagged with extreme rapidity.  Audrey bent down, trembling....  She could scarcely see....  There was something about the green film on the drive, about the look