The ride from Beaumanoir had been delightful; the breath of summer in
every breeze, the light of summer on every tree. The gay laugh of Lady
Everingham rang frequently in the air; often were her sunny eyes directed
to Coningsby, as she called his attention to some fair object or some
pretty effect. She played the hostess of Nature, and introduced him to all
the beauties.

Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered forward with greetings on a fat
little fawn-coloured pony, with a long white mane and white flowing tail,
and the wickedest eye in the world. He rode by the side of the Duchess,
and indicated their gently-descending route.

They arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning themselves on the
turrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them.

'I can remember the old house,' said the Duchess, as she took Mr. Lyle's
arm; 'and I am happy to see the new one. The Duke had prepared me for much
beauty, but the reality exceeds his report.'

They entered by a short corridor into a large hall. They would have
stopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but their host
suggested that they should refresh themselves after their ride, and they
followed him through several apartments into a spacious chamber, its oaken
panels covered with a series of interesting pictures, representing the
siege of St. Genevieve by the Parliament forces in 1643: the various
assaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of the rebels. In all
these figured a brave and graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and buff
jerkin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. The sight of these pictures
was ever a source of great excitement to Henry Sydney, who always lamented