She heard it said that the match was for honour and glory. A match of two
days' duration under a broiling sun, all for honour and glory! Was it not
enough to make her despise the games of men? For something better she
played. Her game was for one hundred thousand pounds, the happiness of
her brother, and the concealment of a horror. To win a game like that was
worth the trouble. Whether she would have continued her efforts, had she
known that the name of Evan Harrington was then blazing on a shop-front
in Lymport, I cannot tell. The possessor of the name was in love, and did
not reflect.

Smiling adieu to the ladies, bowing to the gentlemen, and apprehending
all the homage they would pour out to her condescending beauty when she
had left them, the Countess's graceful hand gave the signal for Beckley.

She stopped the coachman ere the wheels had rolled off the muffling turf,
to enjoy one glimpse of Evan and Rose riding together, with the little
maid on her pony in the rear. How suitable they seemed! how happy! She
had brought them together after many difficulties--might it not be? It
was surely a thing to be hoped for!

Rose, galloping freshly, was saying to Evan: 'Why did you cut off your
moustache?'

He, neck and neck with her, replied: 'You complained of it in Portugal.'

And she: 'Portugal's old times now to me--and I always love old times.
I'm sorry! And, oh, Evan! did you really do it for me?'

And really, just then, flying through the air, close to the darling of
his heart, he had not the courage to spoil that delicious question, but
dallying with the lie, he looked in her eyes lingeringly.

This picture the Countess contemplated. Close to her carriage two young
gentlemen-cricketers were strolling, while Fallow field gained breath to
decide which men to send in first to the wickets.

One of these stood suddenly on tiptoe, and pointing to the pair on
horseback, cried, with the vivacity of astonishment:

'Look there! do you see that? What the deuce is little Rosey doing with
the tailor-fellow?'

The Countess, though her cheeks were blanched, gazed calmly in
Demogorgon's face, took a mental impression of the speaker, and again
signalled for Beckley.

CHAPTER XIV

THE COUNTESS DESCRIBES THE FIELD OF ACTION

Now, to clear up a point or two: You may think the Comic Muse is
straining human nature rather toughly in making the Countess de Saldar
rush open-eyed into the jaws of Demogorgon, dreadful to