CHAPTER XII
OLD FRIENDS
A flavor of unreality hung about the events of the last few days. I felt myself slowly waking as though from a nightmare. The dazzling sunshine was everywhere around us; the whir of reaping machines, the slighter humming of bees, and the song of birds, were in our ears; the perfume of all manner of flowers, and of the new-mown hay, made the air wonderfully sweet. My guest, in a cool grey flannel suit and a Panama hat, was by my side, looking like a man who has taken a new lease of life. He had patted my shire horses, and admired those of my hunters which were on view. He had walked three times round my walled garden, and amazed my head-gardener by his intimate acquaintance with the science of pruning. We had talked country talk and nothing else. From the moment when, somewhat to my surprise, he had appeared upon the terrace just as I was finishing my after-breakfast pipe, no word of any more serious subject had passed our lips. We had talked and passed the time very much as any other host and guest the first morning in a quiet country house. We were standing now upon a little knoll in the park, and I was pointing out my deer. He looked beyond to where the turrets and chimneys of a large, grey, stone house were half visible through the trees.
"Who is your neighbor?" he asked.
"Lord Dennisford," I answered. "A very decent fellow, too, although I don't see much of him. He spends most of his time abroad."
"Lord Dennisford!"
I turned to look at my companion. He had repeated the name very softly, yet with a peculiar intonation, which made me at once aware that the name was of interest to him.
"Yes! Do you know him?" I asked inanely.
"Is his wife here?" he asked.
"Lady Dennisford is seldom away," I answered. "She entertains a good deal down here. A very popular woman in the county."