“Hugh—­the man who sold him—­he knew the horse was dangerous.  I’m sure he did, from something he said to me while you were gone.”

“These country people are all idiots and cowards,” declared Chiltern.  “I’ve known ’em a good while, and they haven’t got the spirit of mongrel dogs.  I was a fool to think that I could do anything for them.  They’re kind and neighbourly, aren’t they?” he exclaimed.  “If that old rascal flattered himself he deceived me, he was mistaken.  He’d have been mightily pleased if the beast had broken my neck.”

“Hugh!”

“I can’t, Honora.  That’s all there is to it, I can’t.  Now don’t cut up about nothing.  I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.  Adele’s waiting.”

He came back, kissed her hurriedly, turned and opened the door.  She followed him into the hallway, knowing that she had failed, knowing that she never could have succeeded.  There she halted and watched him go down the stairs, and stand with her hands tightly pressed together:  voices reached her, a hurrah from George Pembroke, and the pounding of hoofs on the driveway.  It had seemed such a little thing to ask!

But she did not dwell upon this, now, when fear was gnawing her:  how she had humbled her pride for days and weeks and months for him, and how he had refused her paltry request lest he should be laughed at.  Her reflections then were not on his waning love.  She was filled with the terror of losing him—­of losing all that remained to her in the world.  Presently she began to walk slowly towards the stairs, descended them, and looked around her.  The hall, at least, had not changed.  She listened, and a bee hummed in through the open doorway.  A sudden longing for companionship possessed her-no matter whose; and she walked hurriedly, as though she were followed, through the empty rooms until she came upon George Pembroke stretched at full length on the leather-covered lounge in the library.  He opened his eyes, and got up with alacrity.

“Please don’t move,” she said.

He looked at her.  Although his was not what may be called a sympathetic temperament, he was not without a certain knowledge of women; superficial, perhaps.  But most men of his type have seen them in despair; and since he was not related to this particular despair, what finer feelings he had were the more easily aroused.  It must have been clear to her then that she had lost the power to dissemble, all the clearer because of Mr. Pembroke’s cheerfulness.

“I wasn’t going to sleep,” he assured her.  “Circumstantial evidence is against me, I know.  Where’s Abby? reading French literature?”

“I haven’t seen her,” replied Honora.

“She usually goes to bed with a play at this hour.  It’s a horrid habit —­going to bed, I mean.  Don’t you think?  Would you mind showing me about a little?”

“Do you really wish to?” asked Honora, incredulously.

“I haven’t been here since my senior year,” said Mr. Pembroke.  “If the old General were alive, he could probably tell you something of that visit—­he wrote to my father about it.  I always liked the place, although the General was something of a drawback.  Fine old man, with no memory.”