“Somewhat had saddened him,” he thought.  “Pray God it has passed,” and was aroused from his thinking by a sound of horses’ feet, and looking up saw my lord cantering towards him on his brown hackney, and with brightly smiling face.

They greeted each other with joyful affection, as they always did in meeting, and my lord’s welcome had a touch of even more loving warmth than usual.  He had come out to meet his guest and kinsman on the road, and had thought to be in time to join him earlier and ride with him through the village.

“On my soul, Gerald,” he said, gaily, “’tis useless that you should grow handsomer and taller each time you leave us.  Surely, there is a time for a man to be content.  Or is it that when you are absent one sees gentlemen of proportions so much more modest that when you return we must get used to your looks again.  Your sunburn is as becoming as your laurels.”

His own worn look had passed.  Osmonde had never seen him so well and vigorous, being indeed amazed by his air of freshness and renewed youth.  His finely cut, high bred countenance had gained a slight colour, his sweet grey eyes were clear and full of light, and he bore himself more strongly and erect.  For the first time within his remembrance of him, my lord Duke observed that he wore another colour than black, though it was of rich, dark shade, being warm, deep brown, and singularly becoming him, his still thick grey hair framing in silver his fine, gentle face.

“And you,” Osmonde answered him, marking all these things with affectionate pleasure, “your weariness has left you.  I have never seen you look so young and well.”

“Young!” said my lord, smiling, “at sixty-eight?  Well, in truth, I feel so.  Let us pray it may not pass.  ’Tis hope—­which makes new summer.”

They dined alone, and sitting over their wine had cheerful talk.  A man is not absent from his native land for two good years, even when they are spent in ordinary travel, without on his return having much to recount in answer to the questionings of his friends; but two years spent in camp and Court during a great campaign may furnish hours of talk indeed.

Yet though their conversation did not flag, and each found pleasure in the other’s company, Osmonde was conscious of a secret restlessness.  Throughout the whole passing of the repast it chanced not once that the name was mentioned which had so often been spoke before when they had been together; there had been a time when in no talk of the neighbourhood could it well have been avoided, but now, strangely enough, no new incident was related, no reference to its bearer made.  This might, perhaps, be because the heroine of that scandal, having begun to live the ordinary life of womankind, there were no fantastic stories to tell, the county having had time to become accustomed to the change in her and comment on it no more.  And still there was a singularity in the silence.  Yet for my lord Duke himself it was impossible to broach the subject, he being aware that he was not calm enough in mind to open it with a composure which would not betray his interest.