Our passage from the terrace across the threshold of the drawing-room cut
short a possible rhapsody.

Later in the afternoon, in the panelled Elizabethan entrance hall, I came
across Lady Auriol in tweed coat and skirt and business-like walking boots,
a felt hat on her head and a stout stick in her hands.

"Whither away?" I asked.

"Colonel Lackaday and I are off for a tramp, over to Glastonbury." Her lips
moved ironically. "Like to come?"

"God forbid!" I cried.

"Thought you wouldn't," she said, drawing on a wash-leather gauntlet, "but
when I'm in Society, I do try to be polite."

"My teaching and example for the last twenty years," said I, "have not been
without effect."

"You're a master of deportment, my dear Tony." I was old enough to be her
father, but she had always called me Tony, and had no more respect for my
grey hairs than her cousin Evadne. "Tell me," she said, with a swift change
of manner, "do you know anything about Colonel Lackaday?"

"We met here as strangers," said I, "and I can only say that he impresses
me as being a very gallant gentleman."

Her face beamed. She held out her hand. "I'm so glad you think so." She
glanced at the clock.