I am _quite_ looking forward to it. Why did you not
bring a pack of cards? we might have had a game of bezique."

"I think we have made another arrangement," he answers, quietly. "I
think Nancy will be your companion instead of me."

"_Lady Tempest!_" (with a slight but to me quite perceptible raising of
eyebrows, and accenting of words).

"Yes, Nancy."

I can see her face, but not his. To my acutely listening, sharply
jealous ears there sounds a tone of faint and carefully hidden annoyance
in his voice. It seems to me, too, that her features would not dare to
wear such an expression of open disappointment if they were not answered
and meeting something in his. I therefore take my course. I jump up
hastily, flinging off the plaid, and advance toward the interlocutors.

She is just saying, "Oh, I understand! very nice!" in a little formal
voice when I break in.

"I am going to do nothing of the kind!" I cry, hurriedly. "I have
altered my mind; I shall keep to the coach, that is" (with a nervous
laugh, and a miserable attempt at coquetry), "if Mr. Parker is not tired
of me."

This is the way in which I take Barbara's advice. The fly arrives
presently, and the original pair depart in it. Roger neither looks at
nor speaks to me again; in fact, he ignores my existence; although,
under the influence of one of those speedy and altogether futile
repentances which always follow hard on the heels of my tantrums, I have
waylaid him once or twice in the hope that he would be induced to
recognize it. But no! this time I have outdone myself. I have tried his
patience a little too far. I am in disgrace.

It is long, _long_ after their departure before _we_ get under way. The
grooms have either misunderstood Mr. Parker's directions, or are
enjoying their mulled beer over the pot-house fire too much to be in any
violent haste again to meet the raw air and the persisting deluge.

It is past six o'clock before the horses arrive on the ground; it is
half-past before we are off.

And meanwhile Mr. Parker has been rivaling Algy in the ardor with which
he calls in the aid of the champagne to keep out the wet. At each fresh
tumbler his joviality goes up a step, until at length it reaches a pitch
which produces an opposite effect on me, and engenders a depressed
fright.

"Barbara," say I, in a low voice, when at length the moment of departure
draws near, and only Musgrave is within ear-shot--"Barbara, has it
struck you? do not you