among others, the Honorable Mr. Hardyman--"

Lady Lydiard, in the act of pouring out a second glassful of beer,
suddenly set down the jug.

"Who is that you're talking of, Miss Pink?"

"I am talking of our neighbor, Lady Lydiard--the Honorable Mr.
Hardyman."

"Do you mean Alfred Hardyman--the man who breeds the horses?"

"The distinguished gentleman who owns the famous stud-farm," said Miss
Pink, correcting the bluntly-direct form in which Lady Lydiard had put
her question.

"Is he in the habit of visiting here?" the old lady inquired, with a
sudden appearance of anxiety. "Do you know him?"

"I had the honor of being introduced to Mr. Hardyman at our last flower
show," Miss Pink replied. "He has not yet favored me with a visit."

Lady Lydiard's anxiety appeared to be to some extent relieved.

"I knew that Hardyman's farm was in this county," she said; "but I had
no notion that it was in the neighborhood of South Morden. How far away
is he--ten or a dozen miles, eh?"

"Not more than three miles," answered Miss Pink. "We consider him quite
a near neighbor of ours."

Renewed anxiety showed itself in Lady Lydiard. She looked round sharply
at Isabel. The girl's head was bent so low over the rough head of the
dog that her face was almost entirely concealed from view. So far as
appearances went, she seemed to be entirely absorbed in fondling Tommie.
Lady Lydiard roused her with a tap of the green fan.

"Take Tommie out, Isabel, for a run in the garden," she said. "He won't
sit still much longer--and he may annoy Miss Pink. Mr. Troy, will you
kindly help Isabel to keep my ill-trained dog in order?"

Mr. Troy got on his feet, and, not very willingly, followed Isabel out
of the room. "They will quarrel now, to a dead certainty!" he thought to
himself, as he closed the door. "Have you any idea of what this means?"
he said to his companion, as he joined her in the hall. "What has Mr.
Hardyman done to excite all this interest in him?"

Isabel's guilty color rose. She knew perfectly well that Hardyman's
unconcealed admiration of her was the guiding motive of Lady Lydiard's
inquiries. If she had told the truth, Mr. Troy would have unquestionably
returned to the drawing-room, with or without an acceptable excuse
for intruding himself. But Isabel was a woman; and her answer, it is
needless to say, was "I don't know, I'm sure."

In the mean time, the interview between the two ladies began in a manner
which would have a