who are youths' best
companions, since you bring to those of fewer years ripeness which is
not age, maturity which is not decay. What man is there of twenty-eight
with whom I could ride to the country with such pleasure as I feel
to-day. You have lived too much alone of late. 'Tis well I came to
Warwickshire."

This same evening after they had reached their journey's end, on
descending to the saloon before dinner, his guest found my lord
standing before the portrait of his lost wife and gazing at it with a
strange tender intentness, his hands behind his back. He turned at
Roxholm's entrance, and there were shadows in his eyes.

"Such an one as she," he said, "would forgive a man--even if he seemed
false--and would understand. But none could be false to her--or
forget." And so speaking walked away, the portrait seeming to follow
him with its young flower-blue eyes.

'Twas the same evening Lord Twemlow rode over from his estate to spend
the night with them, and they were no sooner left with their wine than
he broke forth into confidence and fretting.

"I wanted to talk to thee, Edward," he said to Dunstanwolde (they had
been boys together). "I am so crossed these days that I can scarce bear
my own company. 'Tis that young jade again, and I would invent some
measures to be taken."

"Ay, 'tis she again, I swear," had passed through Roxholm's mind as he
looked at his wineglass, and that instant his lordship turned on him
almost testily to explain.

"I speak of a kinswoman who is the bane and disgrace of my life, as she
would be the bane and disgrace of any gentleman who was of her
family," he said. "A pretty fool and baby who was my cousin married a
reprobate, Jeof Wildairs, and this is his daughter and is a shameless
baggage. Egad! you must have seen her on the hunting-field when you
were with us--riding in coat and breeches and with her mane of hair
looped under her hat."

"I saw her," Roxholm answered--and it seemed to him that as he spoke he
beheld again the scarlet figure fly over the hedge on its young devil
of a horse--and felt his heart leap as the horse did.

My Lord Dunstanwolde looked grave and pushed his glass back and forth
on the mahogany. Glancing at him Roxholm thought his cheek had flushed,
as if he did not like the subject. But Twemlow went on, growing hotter.

"One day in the field," he said, "it broke from its loop--her hair--and
fell about her like a black mantle, streaming over her horse's b