and wearied, too, by the length of the way and inevitable
monotony of it now first heat of enthusiasm had evaporated. Well--it
was all very simple. He must just re-dedicate himself. And in this
stern and chastened frame of mind he drove through the bustle of the
country town--Saturday, market day, its streets unusually
alive--nodding to an acquaintance here and there in passing, two or
three of his tenant farmers, Mr. Cathcart of Newlands in on county
business, Goodall the octogenarian miller from Parson's Holt, and
Lemuel Image, the brewer, bursting out of an obviously new suit of very
showy tweeds. Then, at the main door of the Infirmary, helped by the
stalwart, hospital porter, he got down from the dog-cart, and
subsequently--raked by curious eyes, saluted by hardly repressed
tittering from the out-patients waiting _en queue_ for admission to the
dispensary--he made his slow way along the bare, vault-like, stone
passage to the accident ward, in the far corner of which a bed was shut
off from the rest by an arrangement of screens and of curtains.

And it was in the same chastened frame of mind that, some four or five
hours later, Dickie entered the dining-room at Brockhurst. The two
ladies had nearly finished luncheon and were about to rise from the
table. Lady Calmady greeted him very gladly, but abstained from inquiry
as to his doings or from comment on the lateness of the hour, since
experience had long ago taught her that of all known animals man is the
one of whom it is least profitable for woman to ask questions. He was
here at home, alive, intact, her eyes were rejoiced by the sight of
him, that was sufficient. If he had anything to tell her, no doubt he
would tell it later. For the rest, she had something to tell him, but
that too must wait till time and circumstance were propitious, since
the conveying of it involved delicate diplomacies. It must be handled
lightly. For the life of her she must avoid all appearance of
eagerness, all appearance of attaching serious importance to the
communication. Lady Calmady had learned, this morning, that Honoria St.
Quentin did not propose to marry Ludovic Quayle. The young lady, whose
charming nonchalance was curiously in eclipse to-day, had given her to
understand so much, but very briefly, the subject evidently being
rather painful to her. She was silent and a little distrait; but she
was also very gentle, displaying a disposition to follow Katherine
about wherever she