"Come when you like, I shall be only too pleased to show you the mares. Don't say anything to the Squire about Honeysuckle, please, Mrs. Courtly."
"I will not; I am discretion itself in such matters," laughed Irene, as she rode away.
It was four miles to the Manor, and when she arrived there she thought how cold and forbidding the old place looked when compared with Hazelwell.
The housekeeper was surprised to see her, and bustled about briskly.
"I am not going to remain long," said Irene. "I have merely come for a picture. I suppose Mr. Courtly has not returned?"
"No, but there is a letter for you, and it is his handwriting on the envelope."
Irene went into the morning-room and found some letters in the basket on the table.
She opened the one from her husband first. It was brief and to the point.
"Dear Irene,—I shall not be home for a week. If you feel lonely, go over to Hazelwell; I am sure the Squire will give you a warm welcome. Business must be attended to, you know, and the Anselm Estate takes a good deal of looking after. With love, I am, &c., Warren."
"Et cetera," said Irene to herself, smiling. "That's so like Warren. He is made up of et ceteras—it may mean much or little—it is so delightfully vague."