"Of course, if you care to go and fetch Diana, I shall be happy," Lady Kerhill said.
Henry lounged back in his chair. "Well, if I forget, Jim can remember for me—eh, Jim?"
Lady Kerhill's face became grave as she leaned over Henry's chair and closely studied the flushed face. She found there confirmation of the fear that had preyed on her mind for the past half-hour.
"Oh, Henry, you've broken your word," she whispered.
The reckless challenge of Henry's dark eyes as he moved impatiently in his chair was his only answer. Then in a burst of ill-concealed resentment he rose: "Don't nag, mother."
He swayed slightly as he crossed to the open casement. As Jim turned to him, he sullenly pushed him aside.
"And don't you preach," he muttered, as he started for the garden.
Jim quickly caught him by the shoulder, "Pull yourself together, Henry. It's eight o'clock and the people are gathering in the park."
Henry's only reply was a snarl as he disappeared in the shadow of the trees.
The broad window opened level on an Old World garden that led into the great park beyond. The late twilight of the July night was bathing park and garden in a curious, unearthly light which made strange spectres of the slowly waving yew-trees. The scent of the rose-bushes, the call of the late nightingale to his mate, and the ghostly sundial, sentinel-like, guarding the old place, made a fitting environment for Maudsley Towers.