case than they were.  They thought him intolerable; so he was.  But I made allowances, because I couldn’t forget how I had seen them first—­the boy’s face, and his chattering teeth, and how he spoke to his father.  He’s spoilt, that lad!  He’s as proud as Satan.  If his father and mother don’t look out, he’ll give them sore hearts some day.  But he can feel!—­and—­if he could have given his life for his father’s that night, he would have done it with joy.’—­Well, there it is, Connie!—­it’s a true story anyway, and why shouldn’t we remember the nice things about a young man, as well as the horrid ones?”

“Why not, indeed?” said Connie, her chin on her hands, her eyes bent on the ground.

Lady Marcia was silent a moment, then she said with a tremulous accent that belied her height, her stateliness and her black satin gown: 

“You see, Connie, I know more about men than Winifred does.  We have had different experiences.”

“She’s thinking about the General,” thought Connie.  “Poor old dear!” And she gently touched her aunt’s long thin hand.

Lady Marcia sighed.

“One must make allowances for men,” she said slowly.

Connie offered no reply, and they sat together a few more minutes in silence.  Then Connie rose.

“I told the coachman, Aunt Marcia, I should ride for an hour or so after tea.  If I take the Lawley road, does that go anywhere near Flood?”

“It takes you to the top of the moor, and you have a glorious view of the castle and all its woods.  Yes, do go that way.  You’ll see what the poor things have lost.  You did like Douglas, didn’t you?”

“‘Like’ is not exactly the word, is it?” said Constance with a little laugh, vexed to feel that she could not keep the colour out of her cheeks.  “And he doesn’t care whether you like him or not!”

She went away, and her elderly aunt watched her cross the lawn.  Lady Marcia looked puzzled.  After a few moments’ meditation a half light broke on her wrinkled face.  “Is it possible?  Oh, no!”

It was a rich August evening.  In the fields near the broad river the harvest had begun, and the stubbles with their ranged stocks alternated with golden stretches still untouched.  The air was full of voices—­the primal sounds of earth, and man’s food-gathering; calling reapers, clattering carts, playing children.  And on the moors that closed the valley there were splashes and streaks of rose colour, where the heather spread under the flecked evening sky.

Constance rode in a passion of thought.  “On the other side of that moor—­five miles away—­there he is!  What is he doing now—­at this moment?  What is he thinking of?”