Later, when the night had fallen and was thick with stars, and the festal lights were twinkling like other stars among the trees of the park, and from the happy crowds at play there floated the sounds of laughter and joyful voices, their Graces and their guests sate or walked upon the terrace amid the night-scents of flowers and watched the merriment going on below them and talked together.

“Ay,” broke forth old Sir Christopher, “you two happy folk light joyful fires, and make joyful hearts wheresoever you go.”

’Twas at this moment two of the other country guests—­they being old Gloucestershire comrades also—­stayed their sauntering before her Grace to speak to her.

“Eldershawe and me have just been saying,” broke forth one of them, chuckling, “how this bringeth back old times, though ’tis little like them.  We three were of the birthnight party—­Eldershawe, Chris, and me.  Thou dost not forget old friends, Clo, and would not, wert thou ten times a Duchess.”

“Nay, not I,” answered her Grace.  “Not I.”

“There be not many of us left,” said Sir Christopher, ruefully.  “Thy poor old Dad is under sod, and others with him.  Two necks were broke in hunting, the others died of years or drink.”

“But one we know naught of, egad!” said my Lord Eldershawe, “and he was my kinsman.”

“Lord, yes,” cried out the other; “Jack Oxon!  Jack, who came among us all curls and essences and brocades and lace.  Thou’st not forgot Jack Oxon, Clo, for the fellow was wild in love with thee.”

“No, I have not forgotten Sir John,” she answered, and turned aside a little to break a rose from a bush near her and hold it to her face.

“Nay, that she hath not,” cried Sir Christopher, “that I can swear to.  I saw the boy and girl to-day, Clo, and, Lord! how they are like to him.”

“Yes, they are like him,” she answered, gravely.

“The two thou show’dst me playing ’neath the trees?” said Eldershawe.  “Ay, they are like enough.”

“And but for her Grace would have been brought up a hang-dog thief and a poor drab, with all their beauty,” went on Sir Christopher.  “Ecod, thou hast done well, Clo, the task ’twas thy whim to take upon thyself.”

“What generous deed was that?” asked my lord Duke of Osmonde, drawing near.

“The task of undoing the wrongs a villain had done, if ’twere so there could be undoing of them,” answered the old fellow.  “A woman rich as I,” said she, “should set herself some good work to do.  This shall be mine—­to live John Oxon’s life again and make it bring forth good instead of evil.”

Her Grace sate motionless and so did Mistress Anne, who had sunk back in her chair, and in the starlit darkness had grown more white, and was breathing faint and quickly.  In the park below the people laughed as merry-makers will, in gay bursts, and half a dozen voices broke forth into a snatch of song.  ’Twas a good background for Sir Christopher, who was well launched upon a subject that he loved and had not often chance to hold forth upon, as her Grace was not fond of touching upon it.