And so one day the old-fashioned yellow coach with driver and footman turned up the avenue. There had been a recent rain, and the air was cool and fragrant. Mr. and Mrs. Mason were out on the wide porch at the northern end. Dinner was over, and the squire had tilted back his chair where he could lean against the great square column, and prepared for his siesta.
Mrs. Mason was sewing. The girls were in the big swing under some great sycamore trees, and Louis was lounging on the grass.
"Randolph, your mother and Mr. Floyd," said his wife, startled.
Mr. Mason rose, but the footman had helped out Mr. Floyd, who sat nearest, and Mr. Mason clasped his mother's hand after she had alighted.
"This is a great surprise and pleasure, but the air is magnificent, just the day for driving. I was over to the courthouse most of the morning. I've had that bother of the Chaffee estate on my hands, but we are getting it into shape. It has taken a good deal of my time."
"We had looked for you up," returned his mother, with a touch of asperity in her tone.
"Scipio, see that the horses are put out—"
"The horses have been attended to. We stopped at Rhoby's and had a little rest and a bite of something."
"But you will have dinner—"
"No, no!" Mr. Floyd waved his long white hand impressively. "We have not come to stay, and will drive back presently."