ll for me there in an hour's time; I
shall have decided on everything by then."

So Lord Bearwarden carried a sore heart back once more to the old
familiar scenes--through the well-known gate, past the stalwart
sentry, amongst all the sights and sounds of the profession by which
he set such store. What a mockery it seemed!--how hard, how cruel, and
how unjust!

But this time at least, he felt, he should not be obliged to sit down
and brood over his injuries without reprisals or redress.

CHAPTER XXIV

PARTED

Lady Bearwarden's carriage had, without doubt, set her down at Stripe
and Rainbow's, to take her up again at the same place after waiting
there for so long a period as must have impressed on her servants the
importance of their lady's toilet, and the careful study she bestowed
on its selection. The tall bay horses had been flicked at least a
hundred times to make them stand out and show themselves, in the form
London coachmen think so imposing to passers-by. The footman had
yawned as often, expressing with each contortion an excessive longing
for beer. Many street boys had lavished their criticisms, favourable
and otherwise, on the wheels, the panels, the varnish, the driver's
wig, and that dignitary's legs, whom they had the presumption to
address as "John." Diverse connoisseurs on the pavement had appraised
the bay horses at every conceivable price--some men never can pass a
horse or a woman without thinking whether they would like to bargain
for the one or make love to the other; and the animals themselves
seemed to have interchanged many confidential whispers, on the
subject, probably, of beans,--when Lady Bearwarden re-appeared, to
seat herself in the carriage and give the welcome order, "Home!"

She had passed what the French call a very "bad little quarter of an
hour," and the storm had left its trace on her pale brow and delicate
features. They bore, nevertheless, that firm, resolute expression
which Maud must have inherited from some iron-hearted ancestor. There
was the same stem clash of the jaw, the same hard, determined frown
in this, their lovely descendant, that confronted Plantagenet and his
mailed legions on the plains by Stirling, that stiffened under the wan
moonlight on Culloden Moor amongst broken claymores and riven targets,
and tartans all stained to the deep-red hues of the Stuart with his
clansmen's blood.

Softened, weakened by a tender, doubting affection, she had yielde