y Ingleby. But Myra was so charmingly inconsequent and impulsive in
her actions. It would be quite like her to reverse the whole plan they
had made; and, if her desire to see him, in any measure resembled his
huge hunger for a sight of her, he could easily understand such a
reversal.

However, Myra was not there; and with a heavy sense of unreasonable
disappointment, Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting porter, passed
through the little station, and found a smart turn-out, with tandem
ponies, waiting outside.

The groom at the leader's head touched his hat.

"For Shenstone Park, sir?"

"Yes," said Jim Airth, and climbed in.

The groom touched his hat again. "Her ladyship said, sir, that perhaps
you might like to drive the ponies yourself, sir."

"No, thank you," said Jim Airth, shortly. "I never drive other people's
ponies."

The groom's comprehending grin was immediately suppressed. He touched his
hat again; gathered up the reins, mounted the driver's seat, flicked the
leader, and the perfectly matched ponies swung at once into a fast trot.

Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed them with approval. They
flew along the narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild roses and
clematis. The villagers were working in the hayfields, shouting gaily to
one another as they tossed the hay. It was a matchless June day, in a
perfect English summer.

Jim Airth's disappointment at Myra's non-appearance, was lifting rapidly
in the enjoyment of the drive. After all it was best to adhere to plans
once made; and every step of these jolly little tapping hoofs was
bringing him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would be at the window. (He
had particularly told her _not_ to be!)

"These ponies have been well handled," he remarked approvingly to the
groom, as they flew round a bend.

"Yes, sir," said the groom, with the inevitable movement towards his hat,
whip and hand going up together. "Her ladyship always drives them
herself, sir. Fine whip, her ladyship, sir."

This item of information surprised Jim Airth. Judging by Lord Ingleby's
age and appearance, he had expected to find Lady Ingleby a sedate and
stately matron of sixty. It was somewhat surprising to hear of her as a
fine whip.

However, he had no time to weigh the matter further. Passing an ivy-clad
church on the village green, they swung through massive iron gates, of
very fine design, and entered the stately avenue of Shenstone Park. To
the left, in a g