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The brilliant primrose of the summer twilight had not yet faded in the west as Sherringborne stepped out on to the terrace and made his way along one of the trim avenues that led across the park. He looked a little older and less jaunty now, his head was bowed, and a mass of little wrinkles were netted around his eyes. He passed under those ancestral elms and beeches, he saw the deer creeping through the bracken in shadowy procession.
So far as he could see, he was suzerain of all the broad acres around him. There were farms and homesteads and cottages where every man called him overlord, and made him homage. And what reigning house in Europe could say more than that?