"He is now in Paris buying pictures. Says his gallery alone is worth a visit to Cornwall, and he is adding to it still. Well, what shall we say to the invitation, Daphne? Shall we accept it?"
"What do you say, Frank?" she said.
"I say, yes," I answered. "Christmas at an old abbey ought to be delightful."
"Then that is settled," my uncle said. "I'll write to him to-day." And being a man of his word, he wrote.
"There are to be all sorts of sports at Rivoli this afternoon," he announced at luncheon—"archery, musical contests, dances, and I don't know what else. Would you like to see them, Daphne, or are you too tired?"
She pleaded that she was, but would not hear of our remaining at home on her account, and as my uncle seemed to expect my company, I set off with him to the town, conscious that I was a little unchivalrous to Daphne in doing so.
On our way through the valley I paused to admire a cottage of firwood perched on a crag overhanging the road.
"That is the house in which Angelo said his old nurse lives," said my uncle, looking at it with interest. "Let us give a call."
"What for?" I asked, surprised.