Mr. Buxton’s attention was attracted to these two gentlemen.
“Go and find out where they came from,” he said, “and let me know after dinner.”
The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bell rang.
Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weather with her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture and pictures, and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holes themselves; although in this case she was satisfied they would not be needed. She had heard the tale of the Stanstead woods, and had no shadow of doubt but that the searchers, if, indeed, they were searchers at all, were baffled. So at dinner she talked exactly as usual; and the cloud of slight discomfort that still hung over Isabel grew lighter and lighter as she listened. The windows of the hall were flung wide, and the warm summer air poured from the garden into the cool room with its polished floor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with its grave tapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes that hung against them.
The talk turned on music.
“Ah! I would I had my lute,” sighed Mary, “but my woman forgot to bring it. What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with the garden-house behind to make the voice sound better than it is!”
Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur.
“Thank you,” she said, “Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering.”
“Indeed not,” he said, “but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah! it is in the little west parlour.”
“A lute!” cried Mary. “Ah! but I have no music; and I have not the courage to sing the only song I know, over and over again.”