that recalled the good old days when the lord of the manor was lord of
the souls and bodies of his tenants. Even old Mr. Lane had been mellowed
by the influence of his new home, and before his death had come to play
the part of Squire far more respectably than might be imagined. Eugene
sustained the _rôle_ with the graceful indolence and careless efficiency
that marked most of his doings.

He stood one Saturday morning in the latter part of July on the steps
that led from the terrace to the lawn, holding a letter in his hand and
softly whistling. In appearance he was not, it must be admitted, an
ideal Squire, for he was but a trifle above middle height, rather
slight, and with the little stoop that tells of the man who is town-bred
and by nature more given to indoor than outdoor exercises; but he was a
good-looking fellow for all that, with a bright humorous face,--though
at this moment rather a bored one,--large eyes set well apart, and his
proper allowance of brown hair and white teeth. Altogether, it may
safely be said that, not even Sir Roderick's nose could have sniffed the
workhouse in the young master of Millstead Manor.

Still whistling, Eugene descended the steps and approached a group of
people sitting under a large copper-beech tree. A still, hot summer
morning does not incline the mind or the body to activity, and all of
them had sunk into attitudes of ease. Mrs. Lane's work was reposing in
her lap; her sister, Miss Jane Chambers, had ceased the pretense of
reading; the Rector was enjoying what he kept assuring himself was only
just five minutes' peace before he crossed over to his parsonage and his
sermon; Lady Claudia Territon and Miss Katharine Bernard were each in
possession of a wicker lounge, while at their feet lay two young men in
flannels, with lawn-tennis racquets lying idle by them. A large jug of
beer close to the elbow of one of them completed the luxurious picture