iterers any the sooner. Lady
Maude--perverse still, but beautiful--talked in whispers to the hero of
the day, Mr. Shute; wearing a blue-silk robe and a blue wreath in her
hair. Anne, adhering to the colours of Lord Hartledon, though he had been
defeated, was in a rich, glistening white silk, with natural flowers, red
and purple, on its body, and the same in her hair. Her sweet face was
sunny again, her eyes were sparkling: a word dropped by Dr. Ashton had
given her a hope that, perhaps, Percival Elster might be forgiven
sometime.

He was the first of the culprits to make his appearance. The dowager
attacked him of course. What did he mean by keeping dinner waiting?

Val replied that he was late in coming home; he had been out. As to
keeping dinner waiting, it seemed that Lord Hartledon was doing that:
he didn't suppose they'd have waited for him.

He spoke tartly, as if not on good terms with himself or the world. Anne
Ashton, near to whom he had drawn, looked up at him with a charming
smile.

"Things may brighten, Percival," she softly breathed.

"It's to be hoped they will," gloomily returned Val. "They look dark
enough just now."

"What have you done to your face?" she whispered.

"To my face? Nothing that I know of."

"The forehead is red, as if it had been bruised, or slightly grazed."

Val put his hand up to his forehead. "I did feel something when I washed
just now," he remarked slowly, as though doubting whether anything was
wrong or not. "It must have been done--when I--struck against that tree,"
he added, apparently taxing his recollection.

"How was that?"

"I was running in the dusk, and did not notice the branch of a tree in my
way. It's nothing, Anne, and will soon go off."

Mr. Carteret came in, looking just as Val Elster had done--out of sorts.
Questions were showered upon him as to the fate of the race; but the
dowager's voice was heard above all.

"This is a pretty time to make your appearance, sir! Where's Lord
Hartledon?"

"In his room, I suppose. Hartledon never came," he added in sulky tones,
as he turned from her to the rest. "I rowed on, and on, thinking how
nicely I was distancing him, and got down, the mischief knows where.
Miles, nearly, I must have gone."

"But why did you pass the turning-point?" asked one.

"There was no turning-point," returned Mr. Carteret; "some confounded
meddler must have unmoored the boat as soon as the first race was over,
and I, like an idiot, r