She lay with half-closed eyes, the white feather boa about her shoulders, wearing long gold earrings. And, as Lily looked at her, she sometimes felt an absolute awe, an adoration. Mrs. Vernon seemed precious and sacred, like an ikon. Lily was secretly preparing an offering to make to her, a book of sketches of the Hall. When they were finished, she would bind them herself. Bookbinding was another of her small talents. Richard, of course, had to be shown the book, under strict promises of secrecy, as it progressed. He had seen all her earlier water-colours and sketches. These, he said, were better than anything else she had done. They were marvellous. Lily basked in his praises.

“How could they help being,” she asked, “when everything’s so perfect here?”

“Before you came, it was the dullest old hole you can imagine.”

“You don’t deserve to live in this house,” she told him, half-shocked, “you can’t appreciate it.”

“You’ve made me appreciate it,” said Richard.

The weeks passed into summer. Mrs. Vernon had come out of doors to lie in a chaise longue under the copper-beech on the Terrace. Her red sunshade protected her from the strong light streaming down through the leaves. Lily sat beside her. They talked of Lily’s childhood, her dead parents, her aunt—to whom Mrs. Vernon asked always to be remembered in Lily’s letters—of the wedding in the autumn. They talked of Richard—“You must promise me to take care of him,” Mrs. Vernon had said, and once: “My dear, how am I to forgive you for taking him away from me?” For Richard’s work would be in London and they would live there, after the first year. But Lily answered: “You know, darling Mamma, that, if I could, I’d stay here always.” Mrs. Vernon laughed and touched Lily’s hand.

Once or twice a week they drove out in the victoria to pay calls. Often there were callers. The Wilmots drove over from Torkington, the Knowles from Mellor, bringing their visitors with them to see the Hall. There would be tea on the Terrace, and afterwards Mrs. Vernon would depute Lily—rather than Mary or Richard—to show them round. “Oh, she’s much the best guide,” she would say, smiling. “Lily knows the house better than we do ourselves.” And so Lily, flushed with pride, would lead off Colonel Somebody or Lady So-and-So, beginning at the library and sparing them nothing, trying hard to communicate some part of her own glowing enthusiasm and sincerely vexed when the gentlemen seemed to prefer looking at her to examining the Blue Dash charger on the chest by the window. Once she went as far as exclaiming: “I don’t believe you’re attending to one word I say.” The military man was all confusion: “Oh, I say, you know—dash it, ha ha, is that quite fair? I give you my word of honour.…” “You wouldn’t have liked it,” Lily cut him short with a smile, alarmed at her rudeness, “if I hadn’t listened to all those interesting things you were telling me about the Boers.”