“Whose car was that, I wonder?” mused Bathurst.

“The de Vignes’s?  It didn’t look like one of the Court cars, but the old bird is always buying something new.  Lucky devil!”

The thought of the Colonel renewed his thoughts of Dinah.  Certain hints the former had dropped had made him wonder a little if the child were always as demure as she seemed.  Not that Colonel de Vigne had actually found fault with her.  He was plainly fond of her.  But he had not spoken as if Dinah had effaced herself as completely abroad as she did at home.

“Oh, yes, the little baggage enjoyed herself—­was as gay as a lark—­till she got ill,” he had said.  “You may find her something of a handful when she gets back, Bathurst.  She’s stretched her wings a bit since she left you.”

Bathurst shrugged his shoulders with the comforting reflection that he would not have the trouble of dealing with her.  If she had been giddy, after all, it was but natural.  Her mother had not been particularly steady in the days of her wild youth.  And anyhow he was sure her mother would speedily break her in again.  She had a will of iron before which Dinah was always forced to bend.

He rode on along the highroad.  It was not more than half a mile farther to his home on the outskirts of the village.  Somewhere in the gloom ahead of him church-bells were pealing.  It was practice-night, he remembered.  Dinah loved the sound of the bells.  She would feel that they were ringing in her honour.  Funny little Dinah!  The child was full of fancies of that sort.  Just as well perhaps, for it was the only form of amusement that ever came into her home life.

The gay peal turned into a deafening clashing as at length he neared his home.  The old church stood only a stone’s throw further on.  They were ringing the joy-bells with a vengeance.  And then very suddenly he caught sight of the tail-lamp of a car close to his own gate.

Dinah had returned then.  They had actually chartered that car to convey her from Great Mallowes.  He pursed his lips to a whistle.  The little girl had been in clover indeed.

“She certainly won’t think much of the home crusts after this,” he murmured to himself.

He walked Rupert round to the tumble-down stable, and dismounted.

For the next quarter of an hour he was busy over the animal.  He thought it a little strange that Dinah did not spy the stable-lamp from the kitchen and come dancing out to greet him.  He also wondered why the car lingered so long.  It looked as if someone other than the maid had accompanied her, and were staying to tea.

He never took tea after a day’s hunting; hot whisky and water and a bath formed his customary programme, and then a tasty supper and bed.

He supposed on this occasion that he would have to go in and show himself, though he was certainly not fit to be seen.  Reluctantly he pulled the bedraggled pink coat on again.  After all, it did not greatly matter.  Hunting was its own excuse.  No sportsman ever returned in the apple-pie order in which he started.