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The glovemaker was beginning to
understand her hand, which was a study for a sculptor, but which had its
little peculiarities.
Nor was she ill-disposed to Mr. Smithson, who had come up to town by an
early train, in order to lunch in Arlington Street and go back by coach,
seated just behind Lady Lesbia, who had the box seat beside Sir George.
The drive was delightful. It was a few minutes after five when the coach
drove past the picturesque old gate-house into Mr. Smithson's Park, and
Rood Hall lay on the low ground in front of them, with its back to the
river. It was an old red brick house in the Tudor style, with an
advanced porch, and four projecting wings, three stories high, with
picturesque spire roofs overtopping the main building. Around the house
ran a boldly-carved stone parapet, bearing the herons and bulrushes
which were the cognisance of the noble race for which the mansion was
built. Numerous projecting mullioned windows broke up the line of the
park front. Lesbia was fain to own that Rood Hall was even better than
Park Lane.


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