He took them; he always took what women offered.

“This is very jolly,” he said, retaining the hands and examining her with unfeigned admiration.  “Tell me, Mrs. Dysart, are you by any fortunate chance as good as you are ornamental?”

“I heard you ask that of the maid around the corner,” said Rosalie coolly.  “Don’t let the bucolic go to your head, Mr. Mallett.”  And she disengaged her hands, crossed them behind her, and smiled back at him.  It was his punishment.  Her hands were very pretty hands, and well worth holding.

“That maid,” he said gravely, “has excellent manners.  I merely complimented her upon them....  What else did you—­ah—­hear, Mrs. Dysart?”

“What one might expect to hear wherever you are concerned.  I don’t mind.  The things you do rather gracefully seem only offensive when other men do them....  Have you just arrived?”

“An hour ago.  Did you know I was coming?”

“Geraldine mentioned it to everybody, but I don’t think anybody swooned at the news....  My husband is here.”

She still confronted him, hands behind her, with an audacity which challenged—­her whole being was always a delicate and perpetual challenge.  There are such women.  Over her golden-brown head the late summer sunlight fell, outlining her full, supple figure and bared arms with a rose light.

“Well?” she asked.

“If only you were as good as you are ornamental,” he said, looking at her impudently.  “But I’m afraid you’re not.”

“What would happen to me if I were?”

“Why,” he said with innocent enthusiasm, “you would have your reward, too, Mrs. Dysart.”

“The sort of reward which I heard you bestow a few moments ago upon that maid?  I’m no longer the latter, so I suppose I’m not entitled to it, am I?”

The smile still edged her pretty mouth; there was an instant when matters looked dubious for her; but a door opened somewhere, and, still smiling, she slipped by him and vanished into a neighbouring corridor.

Howker, the old butler, met him at the foot of the stairs.

“Tea is served on the Long Terrace, sir.  Mr. Seagrave wishes to know whether you would care to see the trout jumping on the Gray Water this evening?  If so, you are please not to stop for tea, but go directly to the Sachem’s Gate.  Redmond will guide you, sir.”

[Illustration:  “’This is one of those rare occasions ... where goodness is amply ... rewarded.’”]

“All right, Howker,” said Duane absently; and strolled on along the hall, thinking of Mrs. Dysart.

The front doors swung wide, opening on the Long Terrace, which looked out across a valley a hundred feet below, where a small lake glimmered as still as a mirror against a background of golden willows and low green mountains.

There were a number of young people pretending to take tea on the terrace; and some took it, and others took other things.  He knew them all, and went forward to greet them.  Geraldine Seagrave, a new and bewitching coat of tan tinting cheek and neck, held out her hand with all the engaging frankness of earlier days.  Her clasp was firm, cool, and nervously cordial—­the old confident affection of childhood once more.