ulina stops, and looks her up and down in a manner that makes Eleanor
feel like a pigmy facing a giant.

She takes out a cigarette, places it between her teeth, and hands her
case to Eleanor.

"Have one?" she asks, with insouciance. Eleanor is staggered. She
does not know whether to take this as a fresh slight or a very lame
apology.

Faint pulses of quivering sunbeams glance through the trees, playing
round the dead body of Paulina's horse. The old oaks rear their heads
to a sky of purest turquoise, but Eleanor has no heart to notice the
beautiful aerial effects. She is wondering if the proffered cigarette
is meant as an olive branch or otherwise.

She gazes in mute disgust.

"Have you never seen a weed before?" asks Paulina vivaciously. "You
are the type of woman, I suppose, who sits at home and arranges
flowers, very artistically, no doubt. You would pose in limp gowns of
gauzy drapery, like a pictured saint, and expect your husband or your
lovers to grovel and worship. But you are dangerously near to the
borderland separating the sublime from the ridiculous. You expect me
to apologise for a shot at random, which cost a valuable horse its
life. Some savage black who worships your fair form at a distance,
most likely paid it back with interest."

"You are a very vulgar woman," exclaimed Eleanor. "I hope I shall
never see you again."

"Don't use that word 'vulgar,'" she replies, "it's so low class."

"You don't mind what you say to me because I am alone and unprotected,"
cries Eleanor with almost childish petulance, the tears glistening in
her angry eyes. "If Carol was here, he would defend me."

"Carol," she laughs, "who is the staunch and gallant Carol?"

But Eleanor will not answer; she feels desperately affronted, and turns
away.

The women walk in opposite directions; the day is dying.

"Well! you are back safely; any adventures?" asks Quinton, as she
enters the house pale and weary.

Eleanor sinks into a chair, slowly unwinds her veil, and flings her hat
impatiently upon the sofa. She is so seriously put out, that for the
moment she dares not trust herself to speak.

"Anything the matter, eh?"

Eleanor clears her throat.

"Yes."

Quinton sits bolt upright from his lounging attitude.

"What?" he says, staring at her intently.

Then she recounts her scene with Paulina, word for word, while Quinton
listens breathlessly.

"Her horse _shot from under her_?" he cries, as if that i