The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. In the chapel she sang with an open-lunged gusto that silenced Ann Veronica altogether, and in the exercising-yard slouched round with carelessly dispersed feet. Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it.
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