I looked at him with interest. Evidently he had been a traveller, and he was doubtless the man whom my father desired to meet.
There was not much opportunity for conversation, for the road was such that it took all our attention to remain safely in our saddles. Our progress, too, or rather the progress of the carriage, was slow, and long before we had arrived at the villa Lord Parkhurst began to look hot and Lady Olive a little bored. Only Frank seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, with that indifference to the weather which a hardy school-boy generally displays, galloping round in circles, and urging his animal, a respectable and highly disgusted old mule, into the most extraordinary antics. At last the ruined front of the villa, half hidden amongst the grove of orange-trees which stretched behind it, came in sight.
"What a dear old place!" remarked Lady Olive. "Who lives there, Mr. Arbuthnot?"
"At present we do," I said, riding up to the side of the carriage. "If you would really like to make my father's acquaintance, Lord Parkhurst, we should find him at home now, and he would be pleased to see you."
Lord Parkhurst seized upon the idea with avidity.
"I should like it above all things," he declared, "and a change from this beastly rackety machine and this broiling sun will be very welcome. What do you say, Olive?"
Lady Olive was quite of her father's opinion, and so in a few minutes a halt was made at the rusty iron gates supported by tottering grey stone pillars, and we all trooped up the grass-grown avenue.
My father met us at the door, and welcomed our guests with an air of dignified courtesy of which many years of seclusion had not robbed him. He brought up the rear, exchanging affable common-placisms with Lord Parkhurst, whilst I, with Lady Olive and the rest of the party, crossed the marble floor of the entrance-hall, stained and discoloured by age, and entered the larger of the two rooms which we had made some attempt at furnishing. The close-drawn blinds had kept out the burning sun, and after the fierce heat outside the room seemed cool and pleasant enough, although its decorations were faded and its walls in places dilapidated. Lady Olive, stretched in my father's easy chair, pronounced her firm intention of remaining where she was until the sun had lost some of its fierceness, and Lord Parkhurst, who was fanning himself with an air of great contentment, seemed by no means reluctant. So we sat there, a merry, chattering party, my father and Mr. Leigh deep in the discussion of some vexed point in the latter's book—a discussion in which Lord Parkhurst seemed also interested—and we younger ones talking in a somewhat lighter vein.
Presently Marie threw open the folding doors and announced luncheon, and my father, with Lady Olive on his arm—how many years was it, I wonder, since he had performed a like ceremony?—led the way out into the wide shaded balcony where lunch had been prepared. We were quite out of the sun, and the air here was fresh and cool, and laden with sweet scents from the orange-grove close at hand.
"I call this perfectly delicious," Lady Olive declared, sinking into her bamboo chair at the bottom end of the table. "Mr. Arbuthnot, your house is an enchanted one! I was just thinking how nice a bunch of grapes would be, and—behold!"