“Hugh,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.  “It isn’t the guests.  If you want people, and they amuse you, I’m—­I’m glad to have them.  And if I’ve seemed to be—­cold to them, I’m sorry.  I tried my best—­I mean I did not intend to be cold.  I’ll sit up all night with them, if you like.  And I didn’t come to reproach you, Hugh.  I’ll never do that—­I’ve got no right to.”

She passed her hand over her eyes.  If she had any wrongs, if she had suffered any pain, the fear that obsessed her obliterated all.  In spite of her disillusionment, in spite of her newly acquired ability to see him as he was, enough love remained to scatter, when summoned, her pride to the winds.

Having got on both boots, he stood up.

“What’s the trouble, then?” he asked.  And he took an instant’s hold of her chin—­a habit he had—­and smiled at her.

He little knew how sublime, in its unconscious effrontery, his question was!  She tried to compose herself, that she might be able to present comprehensively to his finite masculine mind the ache of today.

“Hugh, it’s that black horse.”  She could not bring herself to pronounce the name Mrs. Rindge had christened him.

“What about him?” he said, putting on his waistcoat.

“Don’t ride him!” she pleaded.  “I—­I’m afraid of him—­I’ve been afraid of him ever since that day.

“It may be a foolish feeling, I know.  Sometimes the feelings that hurt women most are foolish.  If I tell you that if you ride him you will torture me, I’m sure you’ll grant what I ask.  It’s such a little thing and it means so much—­so much agony to me.  I’d do anything for you—­give up anything in the world at your slightest wish.  Don’t ride him!”

“This is a ridiculous fancy of yours, Honora.  The horse is all right.  I’ve ridden dozens of worse ones.”

“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” she cried; “call it fancy, call it instinct, call it anything you like—­but I feel it, Hugh.  That woman—­Mrs. Rindge—­knows something about horses, and she said he was a brute.”

“Yes,” he interrupted, with a short laugh, “and she wants to ride him.”

“Hugh, she’s reckless.  I—­I’ve been watching her since she came here, and I’m sure she’s reckless with—­with a purpose.”

“You’re morbid,” he said.  “She’s one of the best sportswomen in the country—­that’s the reason she wanted to ride the horse.  Look here, Honora, I’d accede to any reasonable request.  But what do you expect me to do?” he demanded; “go down and say I’m afraid to ride him? or that my wife doesn’t want me to?  I’d never hear the end of it.  And the first thing Adele would do would be to jump on him herself—­a little wisp of a woman that looks as if she couldn’t hold a Shetland pony!  Can’t you see that what you ask is impossible?”

He started for the door to terminate a conversation which had already begun to irritate him.  For his anger, in these days, was very near the surface.  She made one more desperate appeal.