Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within, who looked out for a minute at her as she passed.  It was her daily walk, for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wander unreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to its ancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house.

Vera did so often.  The square, red-brick building, with its stone copings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunning themselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in the stone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden—­all had a certain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature.  Then turning in at the high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through the deserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentle reverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits, and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead and gone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, in the now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim and faded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the only sound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they had reigned supreme.

She got to know them all at last by name—­whole generations of them.  There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and a farthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, his brother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles.  A whole succession of Sir Martins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife in powder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whose elaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs. Eccles, who had them all at her fingers’ ends, had considerable difficulty in clearly comprehending.  It was a relief to be firmly landed with Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, “the present baronet’s grandfather,” and, lastly, Sir John, “the present baronet’s father,” in a deputy-lieutenant’s scarlet uniform, with a cocked hat under his arm—­by far the worst and most inartistic painting in the whole collection.

It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera.  She elaborated whole romances to herself out of these portraits.  She settled their loves and their temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers’ meetings between them.  Each one had his or her history woven out of the slender materials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives.  Only one thing disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John.  She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who was unmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of his fathers.  She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it.  She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark, dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from one station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet old-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the long chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable associations of those portraits of his ancestors.  Some trouble, some sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt.