Not a question, so far, about his rapid on-and-off engagement, for which mercy he was duly grateful.  And of her, who dwelt in the foreground and background of their thoughts—­not a word.

It would take a little time, Roy supposed, to build their bridge across the chasm of three and a half eventful years.  You couldn’t hustle a lapsed intimacy.  To-morrow things would go better, especially if....

Yet, throughout, he had been touched inexpressibly by his father’s unobtrusive tokens of pleasure and affection:  and now—­sitting together with their cigars, in the last of the daylight—­things felt easier.

“Dad,” he said suddenly, turning his eyes from the garden to the man beside him, who was also its spiritual product.  “If I seem a bit stupefied, it’s because I’m still walking and talking in a dream; terrified I may wake up and find it’s not true!  I can’t, in a twinkling, adjust the beautiful, incredible sameness of all this, with the staggering changes inside me.”

His father’s smile had its friendly, understanding quality.

“No hurry, Boy.  All your deep roots are here.  Change as much as you please, you still remain—­her son.”

“Yes—­that’s it.  The place is full of her,” Roy said very low; and at present they could not trust themselves to say more.

It had not escaped Sir Nevil’s notice that the boy had avoided the drawing-room, and had not once been under the twin beeches, his favourite summer retreat.  No hammock was slung there now.

After a considerable gap, Roy remarked carelessly:  “I suppose they must have got home by now?”

“About an hour ago, to be exact,” said Sir Nevil; and Roy’s involuntary start moved him to add:  “You’re not running round there to-night, old man.  They’ll be tired.  So are you.  And it’s only fair I should have first innings.  I’ve waited a long time for it, Roy.”

“Dads!” Roy looked at once penitent and reproachful—­an engaging trick of schoolroom days, when he felt a scolding in the air.  “You never said—­you never gave me an idea.”

“You never sounded as if the idea would be acceptable.”

“Didn’t I?  Letters are the devil,” murmured Roy—­all penitence now.  “And if it hadn’t been for Tara——­” He stopped awkwardly.  Their eyes met, and they smiled.  “Did you know ... she wrote?  And that’s why I’m here?”

“Well done, Tara!  I didn’t know.  I had dim suspicions.  I also had a dim hope that—­my picture might tempt you——­”

“Oh, it would have—­letter or no.  It’s an inspired thing.”—­He had already written at length on that score.—­“You were mightily clever—­the two of you!”

His father twinkled.  “That as may be.  We had the trifling advantage of knowing our Roy!”

They sat on till all the light had ebbed from the sky and the moon had come into her own.  It was still early; but time is the least ingredient of such a day; and Sir Nevil rose on the stroke of ten.