CHAPTER I
THE AWAKENING
THE house, very old, but, like the lawns, finer for many decades of care and service, rose tall and proud and graceless from the quadrangle bordered by its close-trimmed hedgerows. In the morning the cold, blue sunlight lay thin upon the drab walls, slowly advancing across the castellated roofs, leading the day from dawn, over high noon, and growing almost mellow in its descent. Of a spring day, when the weather was fair, those who had never lived in brighter climes considered it radiant; it was the lack of this brilliance which struck a pang of homesickness to the heart of Manning Moultrie whenever he was in England.
"You do not know what sunlight is," said Manning to Giles Maltby, as the two and Virginia sat on the edge of the tennis court waiting for the dew to be whipped away by such feeble power as lay in the Kentish sun. "In Carolina the sunlight has a substance and a color; one can almost see it of itself apart from what it lights; it's palpable, like a flame, rich as cream; over here it's anemic and strained out; skimmed milk. It hasn't even got the strength to dry the court." He rapped his racket impatiently against the rustic bench.
Giles looked at him thoughtfully. Giles had never been away from England; had not wanted to go away until, in the natural order of things, travel was pre-
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