She knew Alice now for what she was—­a woman of astounding dullness, of sterling character, and of a complete inability to understand any shades or tones of character or thought that were not her own, and yet a friend in a thousand, of an immovable stability and loyalty, one of no words at all, who dwelt in the midst of a steady kind of light which knew no dawn nor sunset.  The girl entertained herself sometimes with conceiving of her friend confronted with the rack, let us say, or the gallows; and perceived that she knew with exactness what her behaviour would be:  She would do all that was required of her with out speeches or protest; she would place herself in the required positions, with a faint smile, unwavering; she would suffer or die with the same tranquil steadiness as that in which she lived; and, best of all, she would not be aware, even for an instant, that anything in her behaviour was in the least admirable or exceptional.  She resembled, to Marjorie’s mind, that for which a strong and well-built arm-chair stands in relation to the body:  it is the same always, supporting and sustaining always, and cannot even be imagined as anything else.

* * * * *

It was a brilliant frosty day, as they rode over the rutted track between hedges that served for a road, that ran, for the most part, a field or two away from the black waters of the Derwent.  The birches stood about them like frozen feathers; the vast chestnuts towered overhead, motionless in the motionless air.  As they came towards Matstead, and, at last, rode up the street, naturally enough Marjorie again began to think of Robin.  As they came near where the track turned the corner beneath the churchyard wall, where once Robin had watched, himself unseen, the three riders go by, she had to attend to her horse, who slipped once or twice on the paved causeway.  Then as she lifted her head again, she saw, not three yards from her, and on a level with her own face, the face of the squire looking at her from over the wall.

She had not seen him, except once in Derby, a year or two before, and that at a distance, since Robin had left England; and at the sight she started so violently, in some manner jerking the reins that she held, that her horse, tired with the long ride of the day before, slipped once again, and came down all asprawl on the stones, fortunately throwing her clear of his struggling feet.  She was up in a moment, but again sank down, aware that her foot was in some way bruised or twisted.

There was a clatter of hoofs behind her as the servants rode up; a child or two ran up the street, and when, at last, on Janet’s arm, she rose again to her feet, it was to see the squire staring at her, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Bring the ladies up to the house,” he said abruptly to the man; and then, taking the rein of the girl’s horse that had struggled up again, he led the way, without another word, without even turning his head, round to the way that ran up to his gates.