dy Calmady in the face no
more. Secure in her own self-conceit and vanity, she had betrayed her
friend.

Suddenly the sharp peal of a bell, the opening of a door, the dragging
of silken skirts, and the hurrying of footsteps.--Honoria gathered up
her somewhat scattered courage, and swung out into the hall. Lady
Constance Quayle came towards her, groping, staggering, breathless, her
head carried low, her face convulsed with weeping. But to this, for the
moment, Miss St. Quentin paid small heed. For, at the far end of the
hall, a bright light streamed out from the open doorway. And in the
full glare of it stood a young man--his head, with its cap of
close-cropped curls proudly distinguished as that of some classic hero,
his features the beautiful features of Katherine Calmady, his height
but two-thirds the height a man of his make should be, his face drawn
and livid as that of a corpse, his arms hanging down straight at his
sides, his hands only just not touching the marble quarries of the
floor on either side of him.

Honoria uttered an exclamation of uncontrollable pity and horror,
caught Constance Quayle by the arm, and hurried out into the moonlit
square to the waiting carriage. Lord Shotover flung away the end of his
cigar and strolled towards them.

"Got through, fixed it all right--eh, Connie? Bravo--that's grand!--Oh,
you needn't tell me! I can imagine it's been a beastly piece of work,
but anyway it's over now. You must go home and go to bed, and I'll
account for you somehow to Louisa. My mind's becoming quite inventive
to-night, I promise you.--There, get in--try to pull yourself together.
Miss St. Quentin, upon my word, I don't know how to thank you. You've
been magnificent, and put us under an everlasting obligation, Con and
Decies, and my father and I.--Nice night, isn't it? You'll put us down
in Albert Gate? All right. A thousand thanks.--Yes, I'll go on the box
again. You haven't much room for my legs among all those flounces.
Bless me, it occurs to me I'm getting confoundedly hungry. I shall be
awfully glad of some supper."

CHAPTER VIII

A MANIFESTATION OF THE SPIRIT

Brockhurst House had slumbered all day long in the steady warmth of the
July sun. The last three weeks had been rainless, so that the short
turf of the uplands began to grow crisp and discoloured, while the
resinous scent of the fir forest, at once stimulating and soothing, was
carried afar out over the sloping corn-fields and