most confused, and suddenly rising, she shook out the skirts
of her riding habit, and took up her hat and whip.

"It has been such a delightful rest," she said, looking away from Paul
and speaking to his mother. "I shall never forget how good that tea
tasted! But I really must go, Mrs. de Vaux! My poor animal is quite
done up, and I shall have to walk all the way home."

"I don't know whether I did right," Paul said, rising, "but I sent
your groom straight on home with the mare, and ordered a brougham
for you. She has had a long day, and I thought it would be more
comfortable for you."

She flashed a grateful glance at him. "How thoughtful and how kind
you are! Of course it will be nicer! I was beginning to feel a little
selfish, too, for keeping Betty out of her stable so long."

"As a reward we will keep you a little longer," he remarked. "It is
only six o'clock!"

She shook her head. "No I won't stop, thanks! There are some tiresome
people coming to dine to-night, and I must go home. Good-bye, Lady de
Vaux!"

Paul strolled down the hall with her and handed her into the carriage.
For the first time in his life he held her hand a little tighter and a
little longer than was necessary.

"Shall you be at home to-morrow afternoon, Lady May?" he asked
quietly.

She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes drooped, and her
heart beat a little faster. She understood him.

"Yes!" she answered softly.

"I shall ride over then! Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

He lingered on the doorstep for a minute, watching the carriage roll
down the avenue. When it had disappeared, he turned back into the
hall, and after a moment's hesitation, entered the library.

It was a large, sombre-looking apartment, scarcely ever entered by
anyone save Paul. The bookcases reached only half-way up the walls,
the upper portion of which was hung with oil portraits, selected from
the picture gallery. At the lower end of the room the shelves had been
built out at right angles to the wall, lined with books, and in one
of the recesses so-formed--almost as large as an ordinary-sized
chamber--Paul had his writing-table surrounded by his favourite
volumes. It was a delightful little miniature library. Facing him,
six rows of black oak shelves held a fine collection of classical
literature; on his left, the lower shelves contained rare editions
of the early English dramatists, and the upper ones were given up to
poetry, from Chaucer to Swinburn