y, except for the poison she spat at Diana Warwick. And
what pretty thing had he been doing? He reviewed dozens of speculations
until the impossibility of seizing one determined him to go to Mrs.
Fryar-Gunnett at the end of the half-hour--'Just to see what these women
have to say for themselves.'

Some big advance drops of Redworth's thunderstorm drawing gloomily
overhead, warned him to be quick and get his horse into stables.
Dismounted, the sensational man was irresolute, suspecting a female
trap. But curiosity, combined with the instinctive turning of his
nose in the direction of the lady's house, led him thither, to an
accompaniment of celestial growls, which impressed him, judging by that
naughty-girl face of hers and the woman's tongue she had, as a likely
prelude to the scene to come below.

CHAPTER XLII. THE PENULTIMATE: SHOWING A FINAL STRUGGLE FOR LIBERTY AND
RUN INTO HARNESS

The prophet of the storm had forgotten his prediction; which, however,
was of small concern to him, apart from the ducking he received midway
between the valley and the heights of Copsley; whither he was bound, on
a mission so serious that, according to his custom in such instances, he
chose to take counsel of his active legs: an adviseable course when the
brain wants clearing and the heart fortifying. Diana's face was clearly
before him through the deluge; now in ogle features, the dimple running
from her mouth, the dark bright eyes and cut of eyelids, and nostrils
alive under their lightning; now inkier whole radiant smile, or
musefully listening, nursing a thought. Or she was obscured, and he
felt the face. The individuality of it had him by the heart, beyond his
powers of visioning. On his arrival, he stood in the hall, adrip like
one of the trees of the lawn, laughing at Lady Dunstane's anxious
exclamations. His portmanteau had come and he was expected; she hurried
out at the first ringing of the bell, to greet and reproach him for
walking in such weather.

'Diana has left me,' she said, when he reappeared in dry clothing. 'We
are neighbours; she has taken cottage-lodgings at Selshall, about
an hour's walk:--one of her wild dreams of independence. Are you
disappointed?'

'I am,' Redworth confessed.

Emma coloured. 'She requires an immense deal of humouring at present.
The fit will wear off; only we must wait for it. Any menace to her
precious liberty makes her prickly. She is passing the day with the
Pettigrews, who ha