The dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of upper-class rural England.
This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in all the county round for
