My Lord Dunstanwolde had slept peacefully and risen early.  He was full of the reflections natural to a man to whom happiness has come and the whole tenor of whose future life must be changed in its domestic aspect, whose very household must wear a brighter face, and whose entire method of existence will wear new and more youthful form.  He walked forth upon his domain, glad of its beauty and the heavenly brightness of the day which showed it fair.  He had spent an hour out of doors, and returning to the terrace fronting the house, where already the peacocks had begun to walk daintily, spreading or trailing their gorgeous iridescent plumes, he looked up at his kinsman’s casement and gave a start.  My lord Duke sate there still in his gala apparel of white and gold brocade, his breast striped by the broad blue ribbon of the Garter, jewelled stars shining on his coat.

“Gerald,” he called to him in alarm, “you are still dressed!  Are you ill, my dear boy!”

Osmonde rose to his feet with a quickness of movement which allayed his momentary fear; he waved his hand with a greeting smile.

“’Tis nothing,” he answered, “I was a little ailing, and after ’twas past I fell asleep in my chair.  The morning air has but just awaked me.”

CHAPTER XIX

“Then you might have been one of those——­”

When the Earl and Countess of Dunstanwolde arrived in town and took up their abode at Dunstanwolde House, which being already one of the finest mansions, was made still more stately by its happy owner’s command, the world of fashion was filled with delighted furore.  Those who had heard of the Gloucestershire beauty by report were stirred to open excitement, and such as had not already heard rumours of her were speedily informed of all her past by those previously enlightened.  The young lady who had so high a spirit as to have at times awakened somewhat of terror in those who were her adversaries; the young lady who had made such a fine show in male attire, and of whom it had been said that she could outleap, outfence, and outswear any man her size, had made a fine match indeed, marrying an elderly nobleman and widower, who for years had lived the life of a recluse, at last becoming hopelessly enamoured of one who might well be his youngest child.

“What will she do with him?” said a flippant modish lady to his Grace of Osmonde one morning.  “How will she know how to bear herself like a woman of quality?”

“Should you once behold her, madam,” said his Grace, “you will know how she would bear herself were she made Queen.”

“Faith!” exclaimed the lady, “with what a grave, respectful air you say it.  I thought the young creature but a joke.”

“She is no joke,” Osmonde answered, with a faint, cold smile.

“’Tis plain enough ’tis true what is said—­the men all lose their hearts to her.  We thought your Grace was adamant”—­with simpering roguishness.