“Of course!” he answers readily; “surely there is plenty of room for all!”

While the words are yet on his lips, while I am still smiling up at him, under the soaked tartan there comes a voice from the coach.

“Roger!” He obeys the summons.  It is just five paces off, and I hear each of the slow and softly-enunciated words that follow.

“I hear that you have sent for a fly! how very thoughtful of you! did you ever forget any thing I wonder?  I was—­no—­not dreading my drive home; but now I am quite looking forward to it.  Why did you not bring a pack of cards? we might have had a game of bezique.”

“I think we have made another arrangement,” he answers, quietly.  “I think Nancy will be your companion instead of me.”

“Lady Tempest!” (with a slight but to me quite perceptible raising of eyebrows, and accenting of words).

“Yes, Nancy.”

I can see her face, but not his.  To my acutely listening, sharply jealous ears there sounds a tone of faint and carefully hidden annoyance in his voice.  It seems to me, too, that her features would not dare to wear such an expression of open disappointment if they were not answered and meeting something in his.  I therefore take my course.  I jump up hastily, flinging off the plaid, and advance toward the interlocutors.

She is just saying, “Oh, I understand! very nice!” in a little formal voice when I break in.

“I am going to do nothing of the kind!” I cry, hurriedly.  “I have altered my mind; I shall keep to the coach, that is” (with a nervous laugh, and a miserable attempt at coquetry), “if Mr. Parker is not tired of me.”

This is the way in which I take Barbara’s advice.  The fly arrives presently, and the original pair depart in it.  Roger neither looks at nor speaks to me again; in fact, he ignores my existence; although, under the influence of one of those speedy and altogether futile repentances which always follow hard on the heels of my tantrums, I have waylaid him once or twice in the hope that he would be induced to recognize it.  But no! this time I have outdone myself.  I have tried his patience a little too far.  I am in disgrace.

It is long, long after their departure before we get under way.  The grooms have either misunderstood Mr. Parker’s directions, or are enjoying their mulled beer over the pot-house fire too much to be in any violent haste again to meet the raw air and the persisting deluge.

It is past six o’clock before the horses arrive on the ground; it is half-past before we are off.

And meanwhile Mr. Parker has been rivaling Algy in the ardor with which he calls in the aid of the champagne to keep out the wet.  At each fresh tumbler his joviality goes up a step, until at length it reaches a pitch which produces an opposite effect on me, and engenders a depressed fright.

“Barbara,” say I, in a low voice, when at length the moment of departure draws near, and only Musgrave is within ear-shot—­“Barbara, has it struck you? do not you think he is rather—­”