They crossed the road at a trot, which was an uneven one on Adonis’s part, and got on the moor.  Maude, still in high spirit, still buoyed up by her feeling of triumph, talked continuously; telling him some of the London news, planning out their future.  They would have a house in London, Stafford should take his proper place in the world; they would step back to the high position which was his by right, as a peer of the realm.  Stafford was scarcely listening.  A question was haunting him, a question which he could not thrust from him:  he was going to marry Maude Falconer, going to take the hard and stony road of duty which Ida, in her noble way, had pointed out to him.  Ought he not to tell Maude about Ida and his broken engagement to her; would it not be better for both of them, for all of them, if he were to do so?  He would have to tell her that he could not live at the Villa; she would want to know the reason; would it not be better to tell her?

He raised his head to begin; when suddenly he saw, going up the hill in front of them, a horse and horsewoman.  She was walking up slowly, and, long before her figure stood out against the clear sky, he saw that it was Ida.  It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that his heart stood still.  That she should have appeared before him in his sight, at such a moment, while he was riding beside his future wife—­his future wife!—­filled him with bitterness.  His face must have paled, or Maude must have seen him start, for she looked at him and then turned her head and looked in the direction in which his eyes were fixed.  She recognised Ida instantly; the colour rushed to her face; her hand tightened on her rein spasmodically; for a moment she felt inclined to turn aside, to ride away, escape from the girl she hated and loathed.  And then she was moved by another impulse; the demon of jealousy whispered:  “This is the moment of your triumph; why not enjoy it to the full; why not let her feel the bitterness of defeat?  There is your rival!  Let her see with her own eyes your triumph and your happiness.”  The temptation was too great for her, and she yielded to it.

“Who is that riding up the hill?” she said, controlling her voice admirably.  “It is Miss Heron, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” he said, as impassively as he could.

Her lips curled scornfully at his assumption of indifference.  “I have seen her and met her,” she said, “but I have not been introduced to her.  Let us overtake her, and you can introduce me.  I should like to know her.”

He looked straight before him, his face grave and set.

“Is it worth while?” he said in a low voice.  “Some other time—­”

“Why not now?” she asked.  “We can catch her quite easily.”

The moment had come for him to tell her.

“Not now,” he said, huskily.  “I have something to tell you, Maude; something you ought to know before—­before you make Miss Heron’s acquaintance.”