ed silently the rest
of the way. At the door, however, she said, turning weary eyes upon
Fielding, 'And think! The repose of it for her.'

'Ah, here you are!' The robustious voice of Captain Le Mesurier sounded
from the hall. 'Look here,' to Fielding, 'we are going to take you back
with us. Drake won't come. He's tired--so we don't miss him.'

Fielding protested vainly that he would crowd the waggonette. Besides, he
had business matters to discuss with Drake before he left for London.

'Well, you can talk them over to-morrow. You don't go until to-morrow
night. And as to crowding the waggonette, I have ordered a trap here; so
you can drive it back again to-night, if you like, from Garples.
Otherwise we'll be happy to put you up. You must come; we want to talk to
you particularly. Mallinson will drive his wife in the trap, so there'll
be plenty of room.'

The party in the waggonette consisted of Captain Le Mesurier, Burl,
Fielding, and five country gentlemen belonging to the district.
Clarice, riding some yards behind them through the dark fragrant lanes,
saw eight glowing cigars draw together in a bunch. The cigars were
fixed points of red light for a little. Then they danced as though
heads were wagging, retired this side and that and set to partners. A
minute more and the figure was repeated: cigars to the centre, dance,
retire, set to partners. A laugh from the Captain sounded as though he
laughed from duty, and Mr. Burl was heard to say, 'Not too subtle, old
man, you know.' At the third repetition the Captain bellowed
satisfaction from a full heart, and Mr. Burl cried, 'Capital!' The
country gentlemen could be understood to agree in the commendation.
Whence it was to be inferred that the dance of the cigars was to have a
practical result upon the election.

Clarice, however, paid no great attention to the proceedings in the
waggonette. She was almost oblivious to the husband at her side. The
night was about her, cool with soft odours, wrapping her in solitude.
Love at last veritably possessed her, so she believed; it had invaded her
last citadel to-night. That it sat throned on ruins she had no eyes to
see. It sat throned in quiescence, and that was enough. Clarice, in fact,
was in that compressed fever-heat of the mushroom passions which takes on
the semblance of intense and penetrating calm. And her very consciousness
of this calm seemed to ally her to Drake, to give to them both something
in common. She was