Sir Giles was in a decidedly evil temper as he rode home from the hunt in the soaking rain that afternoon.  The second fox had led them miles out of the way, and they had not been rewarded by a kill.  The brute had eluded them, profiting by the downpour that had washed away the scent.  So Sir Giles, having solaced himself several times with neat brandy from the large silver flask without which he never rode abroad, was in anything but a contented mood with the world in general and his own luck in particular.  Dusk had long descended when at length he turned in at his own gates.  He had given up urging his jaded animal, being too jaded himself for the effort.  But, hearing a clatter of hoofs on the drive before him, he did rouse himself to holler into the darkness, supposing that his wife was ahead of him.  If it were she, she was later in returning than was her wont, but no answer came back to him, and he did not repeat his call.  After all, why should he hail her?  He did not want her company, Heaven knew.  That stately demeanour of hers which once had attracted him generally inspired in him a savage sense of resentment nowadays.  There were times when he even suspected her of despising him—­him, the lord of the Manor, who had given her all she possessed in the world!

He swore a furious oath under his breath as he rode.  The darkness ahead of him was all pricked by tiny red sparks, that glanced and flashed like fireflies whichever way he looked.  He rubbed his eyes and they departed, only to swarm again a little farther on.  The rain had soaked him to the skin.  He shivered and swore again as he fumbled for his flask.

The fiery gleams faded wholly away as the raw spirit warmed his blood and revived his brain.  He drew a breath of relief.  Again he heard the sound of a horse’s feet some distance in front.  They seemed to fall unevenly, as though the animal were lame.  Could it be the grey, he asked himself?  If so, why had Anne not answered his call?  She must have heard him.  He ground his teeth.  It was like her habitual impudence to ignore him thus.  He gathered himself together and sent a furious bellow into the darkness.

But there came back no reply.  The hoofs ahead seemed to quicken into a shambling trot, that was all.  And after a little he heard them no more.

She had reached the house then, and gone within into light and comfort, and again feverishly he execrated her for not waiting for him, the cold and the rain and the dark notwithstanding.  Again fitfully he began to see those leaping points of light; but it was only here and there.  Whenever he focussed his attention upon them they eluded him.  For these also he held his wife in some fashion responsible.  What did she mean by leaving him thus?  How dared she enter the house that was his while he was still groping without?  He believed that she would shut his own door against him if she dared.  He was sure she hated him, as he hated her—­as he hated her!