He nodded indifferently.

“And she has seen us,” said Ida.

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Stafford.  “Why shouldn’t she?  But I don’t think she has; she did not turn her head as she rode by.”

“That is why,” said Ida, with her woman’s acuteness.  “She saw us from the top of the hill—­see, the groom is just riding down.”

She was silent a moment or two, watching Maude Falconer as she cantered away, then she shivered as if with cold.

“What is the matter, dearest?” he asked, drawing her to him.  “Why did you shudder?”

She tried to laugh, but her eyes were grave and almost solemn.  “I don’t know.  It was as if someone had walked over my grave; as if I felt the presentiment of some coming evil.  I never felt like it before—­Yes:  she is very beautiful, Stafford.  She is like a picture, a statue—­no, that is not fair; for no picture had ever such magnificent hair, no statue was ever so full of life and—­Oh, I want a word—­power.  Yes; she is like a tigress—­a tigress asleep and in a good temper just for the present; but—­”

Stafford laughed, the strong and healthy man’s laugh of good-natured tolerance for the fancies of the woman he loves.

“My dear Ida, I assure you Miss Falconer is quite an ordinary young woman with nothing mysterious or uncanny about her.  And if she has seen us, I am rather glad.  I—­well, I want to take you by the hand and exclaim aloud to the whole world:  ’Behold the treasure I have found!  Look upon her—­but shade your eyes lest her beauty dazzle you—­and worship at her feet.’  Only a day or two more and I’ll tell my father and have him on our side.”

She made a gesture of consent.

“It shall be as you will,” she murmured again.  “But go now, dearest; I shall have to ride fast to reach home in time to give my father his tea.”

Maude Falconer cantered easily until she had turned the corner of the hill and was out of sight of Stafford and Ida, then she pulled up the high-bred horse who fretted under her steel-like hands and tossed the foam from his champing lips, pulled up and looked straight before her, while the colour came and went on her smooth cheek; a sombre fire gleamed in the usually coldly calm eyes, and her bosom heaved under the perfect moulding of the riding-habit.  She sat and looked before her for a moment or two as if she were battling with an emotion which threatened to master her and to find expression in some violent outburst; but she conquered, and presently rode on to the Villa; and half an hour later Stafford, coming up the steps, found her lying back in her favourite chair with a cup of tea in her hand.

“You are just in time,” she said, looking up at him, and he looked back at her rather vacantly; for Ida had been in his arms too recently, for his mind, his whole being, to be sufficiently clear of her to permit him to take any interest in anything else “for tea,” she said.  “Here it comes.  Shall I pour it out for you?  Have you been riding far?”