This was the state of affairs before he became attached to Ida de la Molle, after which the horizon grew blacker than ever.  At first he tried to get out of the difficulty by avoiding Ida, but it did not answer.  She exercised an irresistible attraction over him.  Her calm and stately presence was to him what the sight of mountain snows is to one scorched by continual heat.  He was weary of passionate outbursts, tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of secret love.  It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful snow, that if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light, that there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced marches through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit.  The more he allowed his imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to possess it.  Also, he knew well enough that to marry a woman like Ida de la Molle would be the greatest blessing that could happen to him, for she would of necessity lift him up above himself.  She had little money it was true, but that was a very minor matter to him, and she had birth and breeding and beauty, and a presence which commands homage.  And so it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet more deeply in love with Ida, and that as he did so his connection with Mrs. Quest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering in a passing fit of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became more and more irksome to him.  And now, as he drove leisurely back to Boisingham, he felt that he had imperilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading instincts.

Presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not tend to improve his already irritable mood.  Just here the roadway was bordered by a deep bank covered with trees which sloped down to the valley of the Ell, at this time of the year looking its loveliest in the soft autumn lights.  And here, seated on a bank of turf beneath the shadow of a yellowing chestnut tree, in such position as to get a view of the green valley and flashing river where cattle red and white stood chewing the still luxuriant aftermath, was none other than Ida herself, and what was more, Ida accompanied by Colonel Quaritch.  They were seated on campstools, and in front of each of them was an easel.  Clearly they were painting together, for as Edward gazed, the Colonel rose, came up close behind his companion’s stool made a ring of his thumb and first finger, gazed critically through it at the lady’s performance, then sadly shook his head and made some remark.  Thereupon Ida turned round and began an animated discussion.

“Hang me,” said Edward to himself, “if she has not taken up with that confounded old military frump.  Painting together!  Ah, I know what that means.  Well, I should have thought that if there was one man more than another whom she would have disliked, it would have been that battered-looking Colonel.”

He pulled up his horse and reflected for a moment, then handing the reins to his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a gap in the fence walked up to the tree.  So engrossed were they in their argument, that they neither saw nor heard him.