the
track, stretching like a band of broad green ribbon over hill and dale;
there was the glorious oak wood to the west, above the smooth bit of
grass which used to be the lawn, where the ladies of the reign of
Victoria had their picnics and showed their dresses, and book-makers
used to jostle ministers in the betting-ring. "Ah," said Sydney, "my
father has told me of great doings here--when King George's grandfather
was the Prince of Wales."

The break rolled silently over the soft greensward, and Geoffrey feared
Miss Windsor could overhear their every word, as Mrs. Carey spoke again.

"This is a glorious day--a glorious country," she said. "Do you know, I
have not felt so happy since those old days?" She looked up again, and
Geoffrey met the magic of her eyes, and lost himself in them. Suddenly
she turned them from him. "You should be saying all this--not I," she
said.

"When were you married to Mr. Oswald Carey?" asked Geoffrey, abruptly.
He felt that he was slipping from his moral moorings and wished to lash
himself to them again.

"I have been married four years," she said, coldly. "But you really must
be careful of your driving, Lord Brompton. I distract you by talking."

"Not at all," said Geoffrey, half troubled that his parrying question
had answered his purpose so well. Mrs. Carey turned round with an
indifferent air.

"My dear Duchess, is not the view charming?"

The Duchess made so slight an inclination of her head that it was hardly
an affirmative. She did not approve of Mrs. Oswald Carey. Not that her
approval mattered anything nowadays. But she thought it bad enough to be
a professional beauty and sell one's photograph; and worse still to rent
one's face out to enliven dining-parties, and one's neck and shoulders
to adorn dinners. True, she herself rented their great name, their ducal
title; but then she never could get used to it in others.

If Mrs. Carey noticed the snub, she showed no sign in her face, but
turned to Mr. Sydney. He also had found the Duchess rather thorny; and
was ready as ever to pay the homage that one who is only a wit owes to
beauty. And we know that beauty is more queen than ever in this material
age. It is long since our grandfathers first found the folly of dreams
and banished art and poetry from England--with opium and other idle
drugs.

"Mr. Sydney, you look as fresh as a daisy. I am so glad the
_vol-au-vent_ agreed with you."

"My dear madam, you know not of what