only imagination, or perhaps the stalwart lady with the fine
eyes was hovering near us."

Quinton's face blanches. He turns to her sharply:

"If you _did_ imagine it, I wish you would not romance."

Eleanor is sorry she has told him, since he appears anxious and
uncomfortable. He has never been quite the same since his wrestle with
the masked man. He is easily startled and alarmed. She blames herself
inwardly for want of discretion, and reassures him with a smile.

"Oh! it was nothing, dearest; if anyone had been riding I must have
seen him--I mean--her."

Eleanor knows this is not the case, but seeing Carol's relief at the
words, does not regret them.

"We must expect adventures now and again," she continues cheerfully,
trying to throw off her depression.

"I shall never forget that night," says Carol, "when I rode away from
you in the dark. I _did_ wish I was on Charing Cross Station."

"It was too bad of me; I might have had the sense not to pursue you,
sheer idiotcy on my part."

"Has it ever struck you, Eleanor, to wonder how long we shall go on
living in this out-of-the way hole?"

She catches her breath.

"No, Carol. I am quite contented to be here, though I suppose in time
you will weary of the place, and we shall move elsewhere. Yours is
rather a roving spirit, I fear, never happy for long in one spot. I
feel rooted to this restful retreat; but directly you tire of it, only
say the word, and I will follow you to the end of the world. We have
our home here, and there is plenty of sport for you, so I expect we
shall jog along for a while!" with a feeble attempt at a laugh. Any
signs of discontent on Carol's part fill her with vague dread and
suspense.

"Would it not seem strange," he continues, "to go back to England and
be respectable? Imagine yourself in a prim little village, posing as a
good young widow, playing Lady Bountiful to the poor, and being called
on by the county magnates, while I lived a virtuous bachelor life in
the dreary precincts of Clifford's Inn."

"Apart! _Us_ apart!" gasps Eleanor.

"My love, I was only 'supposing.' But isn't the idea ludicrous, quite
too funny and absurd? You romanced first, I am only following your
lead. I have heard respectability termed 'the curse of pleasure.' It
kills enjoyment, breeds hypocrisy, fosters discontent, revolutionises
Bohemia!"

Eleanor dislikes his flippancy. The picture he has drawn bewilders
her. The thought of lif