It was very early summer in London. Parliament was in session, and the season was at its height.
The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were established in their magnificent town-house in Piccadilly.
The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton.
A memorable day was at hand for the duke.
It was the morning of the first of June—a rarely brilliant and beautiful day for London.
The duchess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance.
The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many birds.
The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its rotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealing equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him.
In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell.