The Countess continued her gentle disconnected talk.
"Two years ago—how different Marius will be! I hope he will get on with Rose. And—la, my dear, 'tis near seven of the clock!" She rose, her grey eyes agitated and a flush in her cheeks. "Seven he is to be here!"
"Let us walk to the front and watch for him," said Miss Chressham.
The elder lady took her arm, and they went into the quiet hall, looked into the dining-room where early moss roses showed between the glass and silver on the table and the candles in their sconces sent flickerings on the portraits of fair gay Lyndwoods, past to the open door, and so on to the wide, shallow steps.
It was a most beautiful evening, a new moon floated in gauzy vapour above the soft dark lines of the trees; mysterious and beckoning the white road gleamed away into the twilight; the stone vases at the bottom of the steps were dimly visible; a faint sweetness rose from the early pinks they carried.
Jasmine and roses covered the front of Lyndwood Holt, and their tendrils, lightly stirring now and then, touched the dresses of the two ladies waiting in the dusk.
The village clock sounded faintly, then from the stable came the chimes of seven.
"He will be very tired," said the Countess.
Miss Chressham laughed.
"He will only have ridden from Maidstone, dear."