CHAPTER VII.
"A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay."
—Wordsworth.
When seven long uneventful days have passed away, every one at Chetwoode is ready to acknowledge that the coming of Lilian Chesney is an occurrence for which they ought to be devoutly thankful. She is a boon, a blessing, a merry sunbeam, darting hither and thither about the old place, lighting up the shadows, dancing through the dark rooms, casting a little of her own inborn joyousness upon all that comes within her reach.
To Lady Chetwoode, who is fond of young life, she is especially grateful, and creeps into her kind heart in an incredibly short time, finding no impediment to check her progress.
Once a day, armed with huge gloves and a gigantic scissors, Lady Chetwoode makes a tour of her gardens, snipping, and plucking, and giving superfluous orders to the attentive gardeners all the time. After her trots Lilian, supplied with a basket and a restless tongue that seldom wearies, but is always ready to suggest, or help the thought that sometimes comes slowly to her hostess.
"As you were saying last night, my dear Lilian——" says Lady Chetwoode, vaguely, coming to a full stop before the head gardener, and gazing at Lilian for further inspiration; she had evidently remembered only the smallest outline of what she wants to say.