“Oblivion,” she replied: 

“By George, Adele,” he exclaimed, “you have a way of hitting it off!”

“Will you let me ride him this afternoon?” she asked.

“I’m a—­a candidate for oblivion.”  She laughed a little and her eyes shone feverishly.

“No you don’t,” he said.  “I’m giving you the grey.  He’s got enough in him for any woman—­even for you:  And besides, I don’t think the black ever felt a side saddle, or any other kind, until last week.”

“I’ve got another habit,” she said eagerly.  “I’d rather ride him astride.  I’ll match you to see who has him.”

Chiltern laughed.

“No you don’t,” he repeated.  “I’ll ride him to-day, and consider it to-morrow.”

“I—­I think I’ll go back to the house,” said Honora to Pembroke.  “It’s rather hot here in the sun.”

“I’m not very keen about sunshine, either,” he declared.

At lunch she was unable to talk; to sustain, at least, a conversation.  That word oblivion, which Mrs. Rindge had so aptly applied to the horse, was constantly on her lips, and it would not have surprised her if she had spoken it.  She felt as though a heavy weight lay on her breast, and to relieve its intolerable pressure drew in her breath deeply.  She was wild with fear.  The details of the great room fixed themselves indelibly in her brain; the subdued light, the polished table laden with silver and glass, the roses, and the purple hot-house grapes.  All this seemed in some way to be an ironic prelude to disaster.  Hugh, pausing in his badinage with Mrs. Rindge, looked at her.

“Cheer up, Honora,” he said.

“I’m afraid this first house-party is too much for her,” said Mrs. Kame.

Honora made some protest that seemed to satisfy them, tried to rally herself, and succeeded sufficiently to pass muster.  After lunch they repaired again to the bridge table, and at four Hugh went upstairs to change into his riding clothes.  Five minutes longer she controlled herself, and then made some paltry excuse, indifferent now as to what they said or thought, and followed him.  She knocked at his dressing-room door and entered.  He was drawing on his boots.  “Hello, Honora,” he said.

Honora turned to his man, and dismissed him.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Chiltern alone.”

Chiltern paused in his tugging at the straps, and looked up at her.

“What’s the matter with you to-day, Honora?” he asked.  “You looked like the chief mourner at a funeral all through lunch.”

He was a little on edge, that she knew.  He gave another tug at the boot, and while she was still hesitating, he began again.

“I ought to apologize, I know, for bringing these people up without notice, but I didn’t suppose you’d object when you understood how naturally it all came about.  I thought a little livening up, as I said, wouldn’t, hurt us.  We’ve had a quiet winter, to put it mildly.”  He laughed a little.  “I didn’t have a chance to see you until this morning, and when I went to your room they told me you’d gone out.”