— — —When Mr. Mostyn, after delaying as long as he could in London, arrived at Leppard Hall, it was the twilight of a day in December and the snow was falling in fast flakes.
He looked out of the carriage window as the vehicle turned into the drive between the piers with the stone supporters, and stared with a good deal of curiosity at the estate that was to be his wife’s dowry, for he felt quite certain of that in his own mind, though for decency’s sake he would never say so, for he did not believe that Sir Theodosius would marry, or that he was, indeed, likely to enjoy a long life.
The aspect of the grey-fronted mansion against the grey sky, which seemed every second to grow darker, was so disagreeable that Mr. Mostyn had a little shock of surprise.
‘It’s a confoundedly dreary place,
