Back at Court Manor, Margery banished for a while the sad memory of her lost love. This spot was hallowed by the presence of Enid’s spirit, and for that reason, apart from all others, was dear to her. The squire reveled in the picturesque surroundings of the estate.
“They may call Beecham magnificent,” he said, dreamily, as he stood in the old-fashioned gardens and gazed round on the fragrant flowers, “but this is home.”
“Cousin Sholto, you indorse my opinion. I love the manor!”
Margery, clad in a long robe of creamy white, with just a knot of black ribbons at her neck and in her broad-brimmed hat, glanced at her husband as she spoke, and smiled at him.
The squire responded to his hostess by a poetical quotation:
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet, in a dewy wreath.
And, oh, that myrtle—how green it grew,