Early September was so fine this year that, but for the shortening days, it was difficult to realise that summer had fled. There were not many afternoons which did not see the little party at Greystone in the garden enjoying the loveliness of the balmy autumn weather, very few on which they were not joined by Edmond Guildford.
“This fine season is wonderfully lucky for me,” observed Colonel Methvyn one day. He had just returned from a drive, and the afternoon was so sunny and mild that Cicely had begged for tea on the lawn, and had persuaded her father to stay out.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “it will make the winter seem so much shorter; and then next spring, papa, you are going to be so strong and well! I expect to see you walking about quite briskly.”
“Next spring!” repeated Colonel Methvyn. There was a slight undertone of sadness in his voice. Cicely interpreted it in her own way; a slight colour rose in her cheeks, and Mr. Guildford, who was looking at her, almost fancied that there were tears in her eyes. But if it were so, she was quick to conceal all traces of emotion.
“Next spring is a good way off,” she said brightly, “and therefore we must make the most of this beautiful autumn while we have it. Mr. Guildford, can you come again this week? If you can, I do so want to drive to Roodsmere; we have not been there this year.“
“I think I can come,” said Mr. Guildford; “indeed, I am pretty sure I can. I want to make the most of the fine weather too,—it is thanks to it that I have not more to do at Sothernbay yet.”
“How so?” asked Colonel Methvyn.
“Because it delays the influx of visitors. Some years the place has been full of them by this time; it’s weary work for them, poor people!”
“And for you,” said Mrs. Methvyn sympathisingly.
“Sometimes,” he replied with a smile; “but this summer has been such a very pleasant one for me, I don’t feel inclined to quarrel with my fate at present.”