nt. Whereas this----"

His face softened a little. He glanced at the golden water and
cornland, the lush green of the paddock, the rich, massive colouring of
woodland and sky. Honoria glanced at it likewise, and, so doing, rose
to her feet. That nostalgia of things new and glorious ached in her.
Yet the pain of it had a strange and intimate charm, making it unlike
any pain she had ever yet felt. It hurt her very really, it made her
weak, yet she would not have had it cease.

"Yes, it is all very lovely, isn't it?" she said.

She laid her hand on the folded leather of the carriage hood. Again she
looked up.

"It is a good deal to have this--always--your own, to come back to,
Richard."

She spoke sadly, almost unwillingly. Dickie did not answer, but he
looked down, a certain violence and energy very evident in him, his
blue eyes hard, and, in the depth of them, desolate as the sky of a
winter night. Calmly, yet in a way desperately, as those who dare
inquiry beyond the range of permitted human speech, the young man and
woman looked at one another. Lady Calmady's sweet voice, meanwhile,
went on in kindly question. Ludovic Quayle's in well-placed, slightly
elaborate answer. The near horse threw back its head and the
pole-chains rattled smartly.--Honoria's lips parted, but the words, if
words indeed there were, died in her throat. She raised her hands, as
though putting a tangible and actual presence away from her. She did
not change colour, but for the moment her delicate features appeared
thickened, as by a rush of blood. She was almost plain. Yet the effect
was inexpressibly touching. It was as though she had received some
mysterious injury which she was dumb, incapable to express. She let her
hands drop at her sides, turned away and walked to the far end of the
bridge.

Suddenly Richard's voice came to her, aggressive, curt.

"Look out, Ludovic--stand clear of the wheel."

The horses sprang forward, the grooms scrambled up at the back, and the
carriage swung away from the brightness of the open to the gloom of the
avenue and up the long hill to the house.

Mr. Quayle contemplated it for a minute or so and then, with an air of
amused toleration, he followed Miss St. Quentin across the bridge.

"Poor, dear Dickie Calmady, poor, dear Dickie!" he said. "He attempts
the impossible. Fails to attain it--as a matter of course, and,
meanwhile, misses the possible--equally as a matter of course. It is
all very magnifi