There had existed between the houses of Thyma and Aquila the bond of
hearth-friendship; the gauntlets, hoofs, and rings were preserved by
both, and the usual presents passed thrice a year, at midsummer,
Christmas, and Lady-day. Not much personal intercourse had taken place,
however, for some years, until Felix was attracted by the beauty of the
Lady Aurora. Proud, showy, and pushing, Thyma could not understand the
feelings which led his hearth-friend to retire from the arena and busy
himself with cherries and water-wheels. On the other hand, Constans
rather looked with quiet derision on the ostentation of the other. Thus
there was a certain distance, as it were, between them.

Baron Thyma could not, of course, be ignorant of the attachment between
his daughter and Felix; yet as much as possible he ignored it. He never
referred to Felix; if his name was incidentally mentioned, he remained
silent. The truth was, he looked higher for Lady Aurora. He could not in
courtesy discourage even in the faintest manner the visits of his
friend's son; the knightly laws of honour would have forbidden so mean a
course. Nor would his conscience permit him to do so, remembering the
old days when he and the Baron were glad companions together, and how
the Baron Aquila was the first to lead troops to his assistance in the
gipsy war. Still, he tacitly disapproved; he did not encourage.

Felix felt that he was not altogether welcome; he recognised the sense
of restraint that prevailed when he was present. It deeply hurt his
pride, and nothing but his love for Aurora could have enabled him to
bear up against it. The galling part of it was that he could not in his
secret heart condemn the father for evidently desiring a better alliance
for his child. This was the strongest of the motives that had determined
him to seek the unknown.