On a clear, cold December evening a month after Sydney’s arrival, the grand old castle of St. Quentin seemed to have cast off for the moment its habitual¹ sombreness.
Sounds of talk and laughter came from the brilliantly-lit dining-room, and the great hall, though empty still, was gay with flowers—great pots of chrysanthemums² and arum lilies standing³ against walls where more than one cannon⁴ ball was embedded⁵.
On this night Lord St. Quentin had elected to give a dinner to his principal tenants⁷, and afterwards to formally present Sydney to them as his heir.
It was in vain Dr. Lorry urged that excitement was bad for his patient; it was in vain Sydney begged to be excused the ordeal⁸. The Lisles of history had been renowned⁹ for their obstinacy¹⁰ in the days when half
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 the Castle had been shattered by cannon, and the present head of the house was not behind his ancestors in that respect.
“The child has been brought up in a corner,” he said, “but her acknowledgment is going to be as public as I can make it. The tenantry may just as well know something of her before she comes to rule over them.”
So the preparations were made and the guests bidden.
Lady Frederica groaned¹¹ a good deal over “St. Quentin’s fads,” as she called them. “If he wants to entertain, he might just as well have consulted my pleasure by giving a dinner or a dance to our own set,” she complained; “but to expect me to be enthusiastic over the coming of a lot of old farmers is a little too much!”

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